


Heart Beats Slow

by m_rosenkov



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Canon, Asexual Monkey D. Luffy, Asexual Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Character Death, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-04-07 15:39:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14084127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_rosenkov/pseuds/m_rosenkov
Summary: Some scars cannot be seen; some memories meant to be forgotten.Law gets that now.a story of courage, sleepless nights, and Luffy’s endless love.





	1. indigo skies.

**Author's Note:**

> hey! title is from the amazing angus and julia stone song, 'heart beats slow'.  
> ah, this is just something i had to write, in the hopes it will help me deal with my own anxieties. i hope it can help someone else out there too.  
> basically some closure after dressrosa - Law learning to love himself. wano arc and whole cake island spoiler free (though because of this, it is canon divergent) heavy topics, please read the tags.

**part one: sisu**

**(pre-Dressrosa)**

_**sisu** _ **(noun) _extraordinary endurance in the face of adversity; persistence; determination_**

_**full of courage, tenacity, resolve, willpower and indomitable spirit.** _

 

* * *

 

  **indigo skies.**

 

He wakes before Cora dies.

The nightmare sticks, weighted, sinking into the salty air, and it takes Law some time—possibly a full minute—before he registers where he is.

It’s early morning, though the sky is heavy with clouds, steel-grey threatening the horizon. Some gold sunlight sneaks through the gaps, warms the air with humidity, touches his face. He leans against the mast of the _Sunny, Kikoku_ gripped tightly in his hand, nails digging into his palm painfully. To his left, Caesar moves, but does not wake; the flag above flutters south-east, waves slapping methodically against the hull beneath them; a seagull takes to the sky overhead.

These are all the things Law notices. It’s very normal. Real. He takes time to mull on it. Relearn. Remember. Forget.

Five days until they reach the bay of Dressrosa, a small island to resupply sometime in between. Providing it all runs smoothly—which the Strawhat navigator had reassured them it would—five days is plenty of time for him to sort this out. Fear, after all, is a learned behaviour. That means it can be unlearned. That means— _five days, five days, five days_ —he can end this, and maybe, thirteen years on—

Maybe.

He shifts his nodachi, leans forward, rubs the sweat from his forehead, and let’s go of a breath. Takes another. Let’s it go. Repeat. Again. Again.

Again.

_Five days._

His stomach flips, chest tightens. _Kikoku_ isn’t helping, not this time, more of a hinderance than anything. He drops her with annoyance; stands, rubs his palms down his face. Hands in his pockets, first droplets of rain staining the deck. Seconds stretch to minutes. He counts them— _one, two, three, four, five, six._ Thunder rumbles above. Paces, back, forward, back, forward. Ceasar jerks awake. Says something he can’t hear.

_Ah._

There is a very brief moment where he forgets where he is, and then Law is back, walking quickly up the steps to the quarterdeck, _Kikoku_ returned to the crook of his shoulder. Caesar calls out, but he ignores him, barely making it to the railing in time as his stomach gives an awful lurch with the next roll of waves.

Leaning over the blackness below, he retches nothing but bile into the lapping water, eyes stinging. He’s glad Caesar can’t move—glad no one’s awake—to see him like this. Broken, useless, _terrified_. It’s like this fear is eating all his discipline, muscles shaking uncontrollably as he vomits again, incredibly dizzy from—what? A dream?

_Weak_.

Nightmares are nothing but images, hardly real. He _knows_ this, no matter how vivid they are—no matter how accurately they mimic his past, his reality. He’s afraid to see Doflamingo again, that much is obvious, but he cannot allow that luxury—cannot allow fear to manipulate him like this. He needs to get this done, whatever the cost. He needs to _accept_ that.

But.

Law leans against the wooden taffrail, the first sprinkles of rain cooling his feverish skin. He stares out to the horizon; considers jumping into the ocean below. Thinks about unsheathing _Kikoku_ to let her rest on his skin. Maybe he could go into the infirmary and just sit for a while, with a drink, with a poison. How quick would that be? A couple of hours—a day? Quicker than whatever Doflamingo has in store, unless the man feels particularly generous; after all, it had only taken Cora 17 minutes to die. 17 minutes wasn’t so bad. He’s read books in a shorter amount of time.

He sighs.

Stupid, really. To be more scared of a man than of death.

“Oi.”

Law is suddenly, painfully aware of a presence by his side: the thick smell of tobacco and cologne in the air, a graceful aura, critical eyes. He does not turn from the water, but he may flinch, edge away.

“Can I help you, Black Leg- _ya_?” His voice is deceptively calm.

“Yeah.” Sanji takes a long drag from his cigarette, the illumination casting shadows across his face, before letting the smoke go in one breath. He flicks the fag out to the sea and shoves his hands in his pockets, leaning up beside Law, all quiet and observant. “It’s gonna rain. Come in the galley when you’re ready.”

He doesn’t say anything more, walking back to the kitchen idly, briefly casting an eye to the storm above.

Law waits a minute.

Then two.

And follows.

He’s not one to listen or take orders, but Sanji has a way of making requests unrefusable. That, or maybe it’s just that Law realises he shouldn’t be in his own company right now, sliding _Kikoku_ back into her sheath, unware that he had even drawn her out.

The Indigo sky rumbles threateningly above, and he makes his way inside in three steps. The galley is illuminated dully by two candles on the dining table, and the one light above the sink. Sanji leans against the countertop, reading through yesterdays news with a new smoke pressed between his lips. He barely glances up when Law enters.

There’s a small plate of fruit and crackers before a barstool, and Law doesn’t have to wait for Sanji to invite him—he knows what this is about, and takes his place, pulling the plate closer across the bench and picking at it lazily. Lightning flashes outside, catching weirdly on the metal surfaces.

Sanji says, “Don’t play with it. You’re sick because you won’t eat.”

He wants to say, _‘I’m sick because I’m weak_ ’, but doesn’t—stays quiet, because that’s safe, sure. Thunder rumbles across the ocean as his answer, and Sanji returns back to his paper, seemingly satisfied.

There’s strawberries and cut peaches before him—a strange fruit he remembers growing on Punk Hazard that he always assumed was inedible, and some bananas. The crackers are plain, and he plops one into his mouth, leaning back in the stool and letting the silence wash over them.

It’s comforting in here, really. Away from the humidity and rain, now coming down in sheets, desperate to break through the small port window. Droplets ricochet off the glass panes like bullets sent from the clouds, and he watches for some time, thinking of nobody and nothing while the torrents slide down the windowpane. He counts each droplet, studies them to see which will reach the bottom of the window fastest, their twisting paths marring the outside.

The silence is peace, broken only by the ruffling of newspaper, and each breath of smoke Sanji lets out. He’s calm like this, Black Leg, lulling Law into a strange, uncharacteristic sense of ease.

“Are you always awake this early?” he asks eventually, breaking the quiet.

Sanji huffs a laugh. “Have you slept in the men’s quarters? Marimo snores like an beast. Usopp talks in his sleep.” He waves a lazy hand and grins at Law above the edges of the paper. “Plus, if I didn’t start cooking now, there would never be enough breakfast for Luffy.”

Law watches the way his smoke rolls between his lips as he talks, from left to right, burning almost to nothing.

“He does eat a lot,” he comments absently.

“Understatement of the year.” He returns to his reading, but asks, “And you? You always up this early on your own ship? Or do you just not sleep at all?”

Law smirks, though it doesn’t reach his eyes; takes another cracker and bites into it. “Bit of both. Never been a good sleeper.”

“My old man was the same.” He turns a page. “Though I think it was more stubbornness on his part. You tell him to go to bed and he’d just kick your ass.”

Law laughs a little then. “Tough love.”

A grunt. “Something like th—”

Sanji stops suddenly—groans with a sigh and rolls his eyes. He stubs out the butt of his cigarette into the sink, and in one fluid movement, picks up Law’s plate of food and holds it above his head. Before Law can ask what the hell he’s doing, the galley door slams open with a loud _bang_ , almost shaking the whole ship; and Luffy is _everywhere_ then, launching into the kitchen which is suddenly way too small and suffocating.

“SANJI!”

He’s laughing like a maniac, the sound filling the tiny space, knocks over a couple of chairs; crashes into the sink and lands on the tiles. Another too bright flash of lightning, and Luffy jumps up, then, shaking himself like a dog. He’s dripping wet from the small storm outside, cool puddle pooling around him on the floor.

Sanji yells at him to get away with a foot in his face, food still held safely in the air as Luffy scrabbles for it.

“Sanji! Is it breakfast!”

“Nope!”

Sanji kicks him, then, and Luffy skids back, laughing again and holding down his hat on his head. Droplets rain off the tattered brim, _drip, drip, drip_ ping on the galley floor.

“But I’m hungry, San—Oh! Torao!” Law cocks a brow, leaning backwards in his chair as Luffy shoots himself to the one by his side, grin almost splitting his face in half. “You’re awake! What are you doing? Did you hear the thunder? Were you hungry, too?”

Before Law can answer, Sanji snaps, “Leave him alone”, returning the plate to its original place on the bench. Luffy peers at it, eyes wide—but is then promptly rapped across his head with a sharp hand. “Don’t eat that, you shitty piece of rubber. Hang on—”

Sanji sighs, turning to the fridge and rifling through. He pulls out something in a paper bag, grabs a frying pan off the wall, and starts his dance—oil, spices, meat—the smell filling the kitchen and warming the space. He lights another cigarette and mutters something about Luffy around it.

Luffy just kicks his feet happily. “We should play that game, Sanji!”

“What game?” He doesn’t turn, flipping the meat in the pan with practiced ease.

“The word game. Oh, Torao, you can play to! It’s really easy: I say a word, and then you have to say a word that begins with my words last letter.”

“No,” Law says flatly, biting into a cracker.

“Hmmm.” Luffy pouts. Hums. Frowns over at Law. “You’re no fun, Torao.”

“Dressrosa,” Law says, ignoring him, finishing the rest of his biscuit. “Let’s talk over our plans.”

Luffy grins. “That’s a good one! Is Dressrosa your word? Animal!”

“Mugiwa—”

“Animal, Torao. Come on, that one’s easy. It ends in ‘L’!”

“Luffy—”

Sanji again, but he’s cut off by his captain, Luffy leaning forward into Law’s space with no filter, face inches from his own. His expression is deadly serious.

There is a long second where Law just stares back—can’t think—breath leaving him all at once. Silence settles, blanketing the room in heavy wool, rain rattling the windows like its wayward sidekick. A metallic taste fills his mouth. A blinding flash illuminates the room once more.

Too close. Too demanding.

He struggles to maintain eye-contact with Strawhat—struggles to hold his own at all—struggles to just—fucking— _breathe—_

_Weak_.

Luffy says, voice low, “Torao. Something that starts with ‘L’.”

Law blinks. _Ah._ “Lemon.”

“Knife!”

Sanji turns around then; throws down a plate of food before his captain. It is mainly meat, but Law can smell the spices wafting from the dish—turmeric and paprika and masala. It looks like something that would take hours to prepare, yet it’s barely been five minutes.

Luffy’s attention is immediately captured by the food, and he turns away. He grabs the whole steak and shovels it into his mouth all in one go; the epitome of greed, mumbling something that sounds like “M’good!” and “Sanji!”.

Law lets out a breath, returning to his own plate, trying to shake the uncomfortable nerves crawling beneath his skin. His stomach churns unpleasantly. His heart thuds painfully out-of-time. He can hear his own breathing now but it’s not right, and the food before him looks like carboard, bland, flat.

He pushes it away.

Sanji snaps, “Knife starts with ‘k’, Luffy.”

“Hmmm.” He pouts, shoulders sagging as he chews. Seconds pass, and then he’s back up, straight, turning to Law with renewed vigour. Though his mouth is full of food, he manages, “Fwait. Night.”

Law does not look at him. “Tachycardia.”

Luffy swallows. “You made that up.”

“No, I didn’t.” Strawhat hums, frowns. Law’s lips twitch slightly then, like a statue that’s made a mistake. He continues, “It ends in ‘a’, Mugiwara- _ya_.”

“Animal!”

“You can’t say the same word twice.”

Law’s distinctly aware of the soft _click_ behind them—the sound of the galley door closing—Sanji gone. Luffy doesn’t seem to notice, melting on the countertop with a moan, looking up to the ceiling like that will give him answers.

“Ant? I’m still hungry.”

Law’s fingers twitch. “I don’t care.”

He desperately needs to breathe.

“Ant’s an easy one though, Torao. Lots of things start with ‘t’. Like Torao!”

He does not answer—stands, taking his sword from his side and leaves the galley. Luffy calls out to him, but he ignores it, taking a breath, filling his lungs—

_breathe._

 

The only difference when he returns is his hair is dripping wet.

Luffy’s lounging on the sofa instead of the bar, now. “Torao!” he says, face splitting in half with a smile—like Law wasn’t just here ten minutes ago. “You’re back!”

“It’s raining.” He places his sword on the dining table with more force than necessary, rattling some of the empty plates and cups on its surface. “Did you eat all the food?”

“No, that’s Torao’s food.”

Law doesn’t stop to think what that means, resuming his place at the bar, resting his chin in hand. His heart thuds uncomfortably in his chest, a little too fast, a little too painful, and it’s still difficult to breathe, the air not quite enough to fill him.

Better though. If he’s learnt anything over the years, it’s that the small steps do matter. This is one—in an hour he will have taken two. By midday his past will be forgotten, and his day will play out just how he wants it to.

That’s how his life works. Ideally.

“Torao.”

The voice is soft, gentle, calming, so unlike Luffy in every way. Almost too quiet, Law barely hears it at all.

He hums an answer; takes a strawberry from the plate and holds it between his thumb and index. Eats it. It’s sour and sweet, and he savours the taste, rolling it over his tongue.

Luffy does not let him dwell on it for long. “I said ‘ant’.”

Law laughs then. A short, sharp sound that cuts through the air. A weight seems to lift away, and he blinks, swallows, drawls, “Tree.”

He almost laughs again.

“Ear.” Law can hear Strawhat’s smile in his answer.

“Rain.”

“Nami!”

“Names don’t count, Mugiwara- _ya_.”

“Oh.”

Law turns around, crossing his legs and leaning back on the bench. Luffy’s sprawled on the couch, easy and relaxed, glaring up at the roof and pouting with a curious hum. The dim candlelight catches the thin scar across his cheek, and Law can see droplets of water drip from the tip of his hair, tracing the curve of his jaw to pool in his throat.

His chest, rises, falls, rises, falls, heart beating steady, and he says, “Nose,” throwing Law a cheeky grin across the expanse of the kitchen.

All Law can hear is Luffy’s breathing. Something shifts inside of him, his heart slowing to a steady pace, and Law realises he needs this comfort, these small threads to tie him down.

“Nose,” Luffy repeats.

He watches the scarred chest—up, down, up, down—a breath every second. Breathes, “Eggplant.”

And what is it again?

“Tea.”

_Ah_.

Five days until Dressrosa.

Luffy chuckles for the third time this morning, eyes brightening as he sits up. “I think I’m winning, Torao.”

_Five days._


	2. a stranger to save you.

**a stranger to save you.**

 

They reach the island mid-afternoon the next day. The rain has remained a constant, staining the sky a dreary grey, thunder and lightning dancing across ocean waves. An old man at the docks tells Law that it always rains here—“Temperate island,” he declared with a hint of pride. “But it’s the cold that’ll kill ya.”

They organise to stay the night, Franky offering to take prisoner duty as he repairs the ship with the samurai and child, the rest of the crew parting ways surprisingly quickly. Law takes to the streets, pulling his hood over his cap, letting the rain _pat, pat, pat_ on his head. The town is still alive despite the downpour, stalls lining the streets selling all kinds of fish and vegetables. A young girl in a pink dress sells him a Northern plum—pulls out a knife and runs her blade through it, handing it over in two slices. It’s juicy and sweet, reminding him of long cold nights by his crew’s side—of days pressed into the dark of the ocean.

She says, “It’s almost like home!”

_Almost._

He buys three more.

The evening passes rapidly, night falling with even more rain. Soaked and freezing, he finds their agreed meeting place quickly—a small tavern that overlooks the docking bay, made of worn down wooden panels and crumbling stone. Muffled laughter and cheers echo from inside, accompanied by the shrill squeal of metal on metal from above. He looks up to see a small weathered sign swinging on its hinges—reads, _Foghorn: “Where Strangers Meet”._

Law steps out of the cool rain and into the hazy bar. The smell of tobacco hangs in the air, mixed with meat and booze, stuffiness sticking to his skin. He shakes off the droplets that cling to his coat, and pulls down his hood, taking in the scene carefully. Two men at the bar, one woman pouring drinks. Candles line the walls, flickering dully, fireplace to his right—and in the centre of it all stands Strawhat, on top of a table, surrounded by his crew and an overabundance of food and drink.

Luffy’s eyes find his immediately, and he grins. “Torao!”

There is a spark of something in Law, something that warms him and tingles. But it passes too quickly for him to dwell on it—only raises a hand in greeting, before he beelines to the bar.

Strawhat keeps eyes on him the entire time.

“Hey.” The barmaid floats like a ghost into his space. “Whaddya want?”

“Whatever you have on tap,” he drawls, throwing down a few coins. “Pint.”

“Ale?” she asks simply—pours without waiting for his answer. “You with them? Don’t worry about paying.’

The next few seconds are agonisingly slow as he waits for her to finish serving, unsure what to say. It’s been a long while since he’s been in the company of normalcy, and his social skills are dismally rusty. Punk Hazard kept him isolated, Monet’s company hardly enjoyable—Caesar’s even less so. The outside world felt strangely paused while he stayed on that shitty hunk of rock, buried in books and papers, waiting, waiting—so much waiting.

It’s hard to remember to live beyond that.

She places the beer in front of him. Froth spills out over the edges, soaks into the rotted wood bar. Her nails are chipped red, glinting in the candlelight.

“Thanks.”

She only winks.

Law takes his drink and makes his way to the group—sits next to Nico Robin as Luffy launches off the table, Chopper screaming, Sanji yelling angrily. The ale goes down surprisingly easily (floral, summery—feels familiar), almost finishing half of it as he watches Strawhat move about the room, engaged in some childish game with his doctor and sniper. They dart in and out from behind abandoned tables, laughing maniacally and kicking up chaos.

Eventually, Nami calls them over for a quick meeting. She has a map spread out before her, tapping it thoughtfully as the crew settles.

She looks to Law when she says, “We’ll reach Dressrosa in three days.”

He nods curtly.

“We’re already in Doflamingo’s territory, so we have to be careful.” She pointedly makes eye-contact with her captain, then, drumstick bone hanging out the corner of his lips like a rabid dog. “Just because he’s expecting us, doesn’t mean he will wait for us to make the first move. If we enter around this bay—” Nami’s index finger traces the lines on the map before her, edging near the ends of her chartered course, “—then it should all run according to Torao’s plan.”

Luffy grins wide at Law. “ _Yosh_! This will be—”

“But you haven’t been there before, have you?” Law blinks, turning to Usopp. He leans over the table, staring at him with wide, terrified eyes. “How do you know Kaido won’t be there?”

“Dressrosa is Doflamingo’s territory,” Law replies calmly, holding his gaze. “He doesn’t like to share.”

“It wasn’t always his territory, though, was it?” Nico Robin now, tilting her head curiously to the side with a secretive smile. “He was from the North Blue, wasn’t he, Torao- _kun_? Like yourself?”

The room closes in around him, suddenly, suffocating. He grips his drink tightly, tries not to crush the glass.

Sanji says, “You’re from the North Blue? Where?” at the same time Brook hums, “Oh, Law- _san_ , I have always wanted to see the North Blue!” while Chopper flails at Zoro’s side, exclaiming, “I heard they have _amazing_ medical schools there, Law! Did you go to any?”

It’s all too much, everything too loud, and Strawhat just stares at him evenly, Robin still smiling that damnable smile. He can feel the tension pulling out of his chest, words not forming on his lips, everyone waiting on his answer.

He recovers quickly, masking his face into ice, downing the rest of his beer in one go. He drawls, as if bored, “I don’t remember,” ignoring the nervous patter of his heart, the sharpness in his lungs.

“You don’t remember?” Sanji presses. “Where did you grow up then?”

“I—” He grips the empty glass, feeling it flex in his hand. “—On the submarine.”

Not exactly a lie.

The table falls silent, and Law stands then, the sound of his chair scraping across the wooden floorboards almost too loud in the quiet. He mutters something about refilling his glass, turning to leave: but a hand snaps out of nowhere, gripping the sleeve of his hoodie in a vice grip.

“Torao,” Strawhat says, voice low and oddly gravelly. “When you come back, play with me and Usopp.”

And just like that, the crew fall back into themselves.

Sanji rolls his eyes, Nami folds her map with a dramatic sigh—Usopp says, voice full of annoyance, “ _Luffy_ , Torao- _kun_ will never say yes, just let it go.”

“That’s not true!” Luffy exclaims, turning to his sniper. Robin giggles and Zoro snorts. “He played with me yesterday!” Luffy looks back to him then. “Didn’t you, Traffy? Tell Usopp I won!”

Law blinks, baffled only for a beat, before he pulls out of Luffy’s grip. “Leave me alone.”

Strawhat just pouts back with a frown.

“What game did you play?” Chopper asks, wide-eyed. “Law would be so much fun to play with! I bet he knows lots of interesting stuff.”

Law _almost_ smiles at that, mouth twitching.

“The word game,” Luffy says, matter-o’-factly.

Zoro barks out a laugh. “There’s no way you won that. Can you even spell?”

“Can you, Marimo?”

“What—”

Law leaves then. Has to, really, before he cuts them all to pieces. He can feel someone’s eyes on his retreating back, but ignores it, placing his glass down on the wooden bar and waiting for the barmaid to notice him. She takes her time, talking to one of the patrons, her smile strangely fascinating to watch, wrinkling the corners of her eyes.

She catches him staring with a wry smile. “Ale?”

“Yes—”

He stops.

The ringing is enough to startle her, eyes widening comically—and enough to startle him, too, apparently; stumbling backwards away from the bar as he pulls the transponder snail from his pocket.

She laughs nervously. “Is that—”

It rings an even hum in his hand, over, and over, and over. Like a mocking tune to a sad story, and all he can do is stare, malice, frustration, that _disgusting_ fear crawling its way back into his heart.

_Fuck._

Fuck.

“Fuck,” Law mumbles—turns on his heel, hesitating for the slightest moment, before sweeping out of the bar.

The shrill scream of the sign in the wind; the rain, torrential, now, emptying the streets and clouding the dull lamplights that line cobblestone streets. A rat scurries across the wooden dock; a fisherman sits on the end of a pier, three buckets by his side. Law can see the _Sunny,_ swaying dangerously on choppy bay waters. _Kikoku_ is still inside, beside Nico Robin.

Law stands in the darkness for— _one, two, three, four—_ five beats.

Then answers the phone.

The silence is deafening.

The receiver creaks in his hold. He considers, for the briefest moment, crushing it with his bare hands.

_“What?”_

Not the most careful way to start. Doflamingo laughs at that.

“Oh, _Law._ You have changed.”

He hasn’t. Not one bit. Law has seen him in newspapers—glimpsed him across the Battle of Marineford, heart in throat. Still too much of him, too tall, too graceful, too _commanding_. The nightmares are so close to the truth its worrying—and his voice: like viscous, dripping from his thin lips, crawling beneath Law’s skin.

He looks up to the grey sky and asks, deadly calm, “Is there a reason you called?”

“To talk to an old friend. To talk to family.”

“I am _neither_ of those.”

“Yes, you are.” Then: “ _Law_.”

The clouds swirl above him; they spin and spin and spin. He grips the snail so tight, he’s sure it will die, the emptiness in the air building and building until he feels his very breath will shatter the world like glass. There are a hundred words on the tip of his tongue, a thousand things he could say.

But he cannot translate thirteen years of bitterness, hate and regret into words. Not really, anyway.

“I will _kill_ you,” he growls, hands shaking uncontrollably. The rain soaks him to the bone, freezing his core—but there is a fire lit inside of him, burning unbearably bright, the world nothing but a low fuzz around him. “I will—”

“What?” That laugh, _that laugh,_ echoing through the night. “You remind me _so_ much of myself, Law. It’s flattering.”

It is in that moment, Law thinks about throwing the snail through the glass of the tavern window. It is in that moment, Law wants—badly, desperately—to dive into the furious waves; to feel his body slam against the breakwall, completely beyond his control. It is in that moment, he remembers the gunshot, the silence around him, the wooden chest pressing him into four corners, breaths too loud, too short, chest inexplicably tight.

It is in that moment, the receiver is pried from his grasp, the snail _clank_ ing loudly as the phone call ends.

And Luffy throws it into the ocean behind him.

“ _Nyah_ , his voice is annoying, Torao!” Luffy grins. “What are you doing out here any—”

Law doesn’t give him a chance to finish—can’t. It’s like everything inside of him just snaps, breath leaving him all in a rush, the rain suddenly like sharp pinpricks on his bare skin. Irritating. Just—

—fucking—

He grabs Luffy’s ratty vest, wrenches him up close so he’s inches away from Law’s face, eyes widening in surprise. And then, with all his might, he spins around, _slamming_ Luffy so hard against the stone wall of the tavern, he can hear the bolts of the door rattle through the pouring sky.

“Mugiwara _-ya_ ,” he hisses, so low he can barely recognise his own voice at all. “What are you doing?”

Luffy frowns. Tilts his head to the side. “His voice was annoying, Torao.” He says it like it is the most obvious thing in the world. “Next time I want to hear him, I wanna be kicking his ass!”

Law’s nails dig into his palms, the fabric of Luffy’s shirt tearing beneath his fingers. He can taste blood—realises, absently, that he has been biting his cheek.

“This isn’t about you,” he growls.

“Yes, it is. Torao, we’re _nakama_.”

Luffy is so limp in his hold, so deceptively weak.

“No, we are not.” He grips the shirt tighter, leans forward so Luffy’s breaths warm his face. “We are _not_.”

Through the foggy window, there is a movement—Law sees Zoro stand from his chair and glance to the door with an empty bottle in hand. And Law wants, suddenly, more than anything, for the swordsman to find them like this. For the Strawhats to see Law for what he really is—sadistic and cruel—a threat, to them and to everything. He wants— badly—for them to fight him, to end it here, now—and then, maybe then, it will all fall into place.

Maybe then he’ll be saved.

But Zoro just laughs; turns towards the bar and calls for another drink.

There’s nothing but that squealing sign, the _pat, pat, pat_ of rain. Nothing but Luffy’s steady breathing against his face.

Then, Strawhat says, voice extraordinarily low, “Do you want to fight me, Traffy?”

“Do I—” Law blinks. Luffy’s eyes are as dark as the sky above, sucking him deep. “Do I…?”

“Fight me.” His hat splits his face in half, and he looks dangerous— _feels_ dangerous. “Law.”

He drops Strawhat.

He falls on his feet with a small _oof_ , mud splashing up his bare legs, sandals sinking into the muck. His hat falls back off his head, resting against his shoulder blades, and he looks up at Law, face still deadly serious.

Law is well acquainted with enigmatic beings. His life with Doflamingo was stumbling through the dark, with carefully chosen words, surrounded by powerful figures ready to crush him at any order. But Luffy is not enigmatic—quite the opposite, actually—and Law feels he can read him like an open book.

To a certain extent.

He runs a palm down his face. “Leave me,” Law mutters into his hand, turning in the mud. He has nowhere to go, but he knows he can’t stay here. Won’t stay here. “Just—”

Then Luffy hits him.

It’s very sudden. It’s incredibly painful.

Completely unpredictable.

All he sees is the docks, the swirling ocean ebbing and flowing beneath the wood. Law can hear it clearly—the tumultuous waves smashing against the solid stone breakwall—and then, all he can hear is a loud ringing, his head spinning as the world tilts on its axis, exploding into white.

He stumbles, hands out; takes a second to blink back into consciousness. Quick enough to turn and see Luffy readying for another, face feral in the half-light of the streetlamps, eyes flashing with intensity. He goes to say something—then thinks better of it, expanding Room and switching himself with a wine barrel in the alleyway beside the tavern.

The exploding sound of wood shattering beneath Luffy’s fist echoes through the night.

“Torao!”

Law steps out around the building, anger rippling through him. “ _Mugiwara_ —”

Luffy’s fist misses him by a hair. Haki leaks from him, and Law realises, quite suddenly, that there is no reasoning with him. No point to.

He wants this as much as Strawhat does. _Needs_ it.

Law grits his teeth, the fire from before returning with force. Room is up, and he teleports to Luffy’s side, slamming his fist into his jaw, hardened with Haki. Strawhat barely stumbles, wiping the blood from his nose and delivering a body shot to his gut before he can even think to dodge.

Air leaves Law all at once, and he staggers, gasping, world spinning. Luffy takes the moment to grab him by the front of his jumper, lifting him from the ground with inhuman strength and throwing him into the building beside the tavern.

His head slams against stone—and he feels it then, he does—the edges of his mind slipping into the abyss. He doesn’t fight it, letting fingers of darkness creep in, rain cool on his burning skin.

He sighs.

 

Law wakes to a dull ache in his head, eyes burning. He keeps them closed for some time, piecing the world together bit by bit through sound alone. There is still the _pitter-patter_ of rain, crashing of ocean waves, his own laboured breathing, and then— _ah_ —a humming by his side.

“Mugiwara- _ya_.” His tongue feels thick and swollen in his mouth, words slurred.

“Huh? Oh! Torao.” Luffy’s voice is weirdly soft.

“How long…?”

He feels Luffy shrug next to him, their shoulders just touching. He is extremely warm. “No one’s been out yet.”

_So, not that long._

Law lets out a slow breath; leans his head back against the stone wall behind them and opens his eyes to the sky. The freezing rain stings his face, pooling around him, tempering the painful pounding of his head. The waves remain a constant, steady beat—and the world feels so centred, then, like a laser, pointed on him and Luffy alone, with nothing beyond them.

Law shivers, and Strawhat moves closer.

“That was fun, Traffy,” he breathes.

He seems to deflate, and Law’s head lolls to the side, eyes half-lidded as he stares at Luffy. He looks… wonderfully peaceful. Calm, almost. Words he thought would never attribute to the man, and yet.

Blood trickles down the side of his face, curves his jaw, glints in the light.

Law almost swipes it away. Almost touches him.

_Almost._

The surgeon listens to the ocean, slamming against stone and wood; lets seconds drag to minutes as he watches the ticking of Luffy’s pulse, thudding against his ribcage, shadowed by light. Law feels his body sigh, eyes nearly sliding completely shut, everything so … still.

“Oi, Torao?”

He opens his eyes. “Yeah.”

There is a significance to this otherwise ordinary moment, a thrumming in the atmosphere that feels ready to be shattered. Law thinks if he opened Room, he could scan the air; pinpoint exactly where the tension weighs, crackling like electricity.

Then Luffy says:

“I get excited thinking about you.”

He turns, with that look in his eyes, wide and warm and bold. Law just holds his gaze back. Says nothing at all, can’t think of anything _to_ say, because he’s not even sure if Luffy knows what he said—if he even knows what he means himself.

Eventually, Law finds his voice; manages through the slapping of waves and weight of Strawhat’s eyes, “Excited how?”

“I don’t know.” Luffy shrugs. “Like… I’m waiting for something.” Then, he straightens his shoulders, and smiles, grin spreading from ear to ear. “And I get even more excited when I think about kicking Mingo’s ass!”

_Anticipation._

That’s what Strawhat is trying to describe, Law realises. Anticipation for a fight, for defeating Doflamingo. And with how little he knows Luffy, Law can only guess it is the uncertainty of their alliance that has him fluttering now—the elation of friendship with a dangerous stranger, with a fellow captain.

Luffy twists his body right around to face Law, and crosses his legs, swaying with the cold wind. His smile is excruciatingly bright.

Law lets the silence draw between them, looking at somewhere past Luffy, to the ocean of stars ahead. His shoulder is cold in his absence, and he shivers again, a movement that shakes his whole frame. He rubs at his arms absently, listening to the waves, the steady breathing of Strawhat by his side. Deep and content.

“Are you excited?” Luffy asks, minutes later.

So late at night with the air so chilly and his head so full of cotton wool, Law almost laughs at Luffy’s gross underestimate of Doflamingo’s power.

“Something like that,” he mutters after a beat, voice dull.

Law struggles to a stand, leaning against the wall for support, head spinning dangerously. He stares down at Strawhat, holding his gaze for an incredibly long time, nothing but the crashing of waves between them.

Law’s heart stops for a moment, and it almost slips out, a chip in his impeccable resolve.

 “I—” He clears his throat. Looks away with a deep breath.

_I’m scared._

Law lets it hang in the air; then lets it fall with the rain—manages a small sigh through the night as he returns his eyes to Strawhat.

“I’ll be on your ship.” He re-opens Room, Shambling  _Kikoku_ back into the crook of his shoulder. She fits perfectly, as always, grounding him back to the present, to the _now._ He offers Luffy a faint smirk, and says, “G’night, Mugiwara- _ya_.”

Luffy smiles back. “Night, Torao.”

Law walks away, heading towards the _Sunny,_ breathing in deep the salty ocean air. But before he disappears into the dark, Law turns—sees Luffy still watching him across the docks, legs crossed, the ocean endless behind him.

Law stares back, eyes lingering for a moment too long, heart curiously still.

It feels like the start of something, he realises.

Something important.


	3. under a Dressrosan sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //shakes fist// zoro and law nakamaship IS LIFE.

**part two: fissure.**

**(Dressrosa)**

**_‘before the new day arrives, we’ll leave our buried shoeboxes, our capsules filled with time,_ **

**_and come alive; we’ll come to life.’_ **

**_Survival Expert –_ ** **Paul Dempsey**

 

* * *

 

 

**under a dressrosan sun.**

 

Law wakes, slowly, drenched in morning sunlight.

The room around him buzzes with life: soft chatter, the sound of dishes clinking in a sink as they’re washed—Robin asks if anyone would like a cup of tea, just as the kettle on the stove emits a high-pitched whistle. A breeze passes through the open window, fluttering the linen curtains and bringing with it the scent of sunflowers and ocean air.

Law allows the world to wash over him, staring up at the stark white ceiling, blank canvas mocking and cruel. Counts each ticking second with every breath he struggles to take. The itchy cotton sheets stick to his bare chest, right arm burning beneath the restriction of the bandages messily wrapped by the Tontatta princess. His body is bruised, broken, every muscle aching and sore, head almost exploding with pain.

Law wakes slowly, and that… is difficult to deal with.

A part of him was aware that this would happen, of course. The other, more emotional part, simmers with anger and frustration, wishing bitterly that he could go back a day, a week, _years_. The white ceiling above plays the scene over and over like a sad Southern tragedy; Doflamingo’s gun just within his reach, one bullet left. He imagines pressing it into the Shichibukai’s temple, pulling the trigger, his purpose, finally achieved, finally _done_ after all these years.

However.

 _However_.

Laying in that shitty bedroll on the floor, the world continuing around him, Law can feel the fissure of his timeline—a clear wall down the centre of it all. Before Dressrosa, and now— _after_. And it is not how he wanted it to be, not how he envisioned it at all; knowing that Doflamingo is still out there, alive, like prison walls and Seastone cuffs and poorly trained marines could _ever_ stop someone like him—

Law’s heart clenches painfully, and he remembers, absently, that he must breathe, must _move_.

Sluggish and exhausted, Law struggles to a sit, sheets tumbling around his waist. He runs a palm down his face, aware of how rancid his own skin smells—like metal and dirt and sweat. Dried blood underneath his nails flakes off like snow, and he stares at it for a minute, taste of iron between his teeth.

Uneasiness eddies in his gut, and he takes a breath. Two. Six. Twelve. The air can’t quite fill his lungs, and Law’s head spins with his desperate effort, the cabin tilting dangerously.

“Law- _dono_!”

A hand grabs his shoulder, firm and grounding, pushing him upright gingerly. He blinks, the room before him blurring, pain shooting through his head.

It takes a full minute before his vision is clear, mind steady. Robin crouches down before him, her eyes betraying hints of worry only for the briefest moment. Then, she smiles.

“Would you like some tea, Torao- _kun_?” She has changed from her bloodstained dress to a tourist shirt, the idea of it almost laughable given the state of the country. Sunlight catches in her hair, turning the black to brown to black again as she tilts her head curiously to the side, repeating, “Torao- _kun_?” with concern.

He can’t stop thinking of the way she smelt: like roses and blood. He can’t stop thinking of the heat of her body as she threw herself on top of him, Doflamingo flying through the sky. He can’t stop thinking how ready she was to _die_ —for him— _of all people_ ; her breathing ragged, nails digging into his shoulders, heart hammering fast and hard against his own chest as she pressed further into his body.

He remembers the grass, wet on his back—he remembers watching as Doflamingo raised his hand behind her—he remembers accepting her death as just another casualty—he remembers being _useless_.

“Law?” she asks, and he blinks.

“Nico- _ya_.” He swallows, mouth arid. Presses a palm to his temple like that will hold his thoughts together, and tries again, “I—yes. Black. No sugar.”

Robin nods once—stares at him for a moment too long, a beat too still—then stands and leaves. He thinks about calling her back, about finding some dignity to overcome his own selfish pride; to say, just _thank you_ , because that’s the least he can do, the _least_ he can offer.

But he does not. Stays still and says nothing. Sits, in the middle of that tiny shack, Luffy still sprawled across the bed fast asleep, past and present forever divided.

That’s it. That’s all. He will never be more than what he is.

 

The rest of the day passes with deceptive normalcy.

He’s left alone save for sleeping Strawhat, visited intermittently by Princess Mansherry and Leo, who fuss over his arm and other wounds, before moving to Luffy on the bed.

Law stares, frustrated at his own exhaustion. Watching them work over the other captain, wishing nothing more than to have the energy to open Room—to see where Luffy’s at, to see how he is—wishing just to _know_. Did he die up there and come back to life? How is his heart, does it beat?—and his breathing, can he breathe—Law needs to _breathe_ —

Before they leave the third time, it slips out:

“Will he be okay?”

They turn to him, wide-eyed and alarmed. Perhaps it is the brokenness of his voice; perhaps it’s just that he had never spoken to them before. Maybe it’s the quiet that bleeds out of him—the desperation and fear that reeks and crackles through the air.

Regardless, he lets the silence stay for only three seconds, before repeating, impatient, “Will he?”

The small princess opens her mouth, then closes it. Opens. And closes. Finally managing, eyes swimming in tears, “Yes!”

He does not believe her.

 

Fevered dreams fill the rest of his afternoon, sheets slicked with sweat and blood as he tosses and turns.

At some point, just on sunset, Law gives up on rest, laying in the awful bedroll, staring up at the ceiling, letting his muscles melt into the floor. His heart hammers in his chest, and he just watches the curtains wave in the warm breeze, pulling at the sheets underneath him to straighten them out. Fiddles with his hat, trying to rub out some of the blood with his thumb. Smells like acid. Rolls to his side and immediately regrets it, arm _burning_ with pain.

He sits up abruptly, head spinning, and curses. Strawhat lets out a loud snore, and Law turns, staring at him drenched in the dappled sunlight that breaks through the cracks of Kyros’ tiny shack. Watches the way his chest rises with each breath. Watches him mumbling something incoherent, the curve of his smile, fluttering of eyelids as he dreams.

Law watches—stares—breathes, feeling strangely giddy, drunk, like he’s just downed a whole bottle of wine, Luffy luminous and alive—and _alive_.

The sound of the front door opening from behind draws him back, and he turns to watch Zoro stride across the room, arm full of— _stuff._ He plonks himself beside Law without so much as a hello, placing a small bottle, whetstone, and cotton wool onto the floorboards between them.

Then he crosses his legs, holds out his hand, and says, tone absolute, “Give me your sword.”

“No,” Law snaps, immediately cringing at his own brattiness. Zoro stays still like a statue, gives no indication he heard Law at all, and with a sigh he repeats, “ _No_.” Then, “Why?”

“I’m going to clean it,” he replies simply.

They stare at one another for a minute, neither betraying any emotion—and Law could almost laugh then, the intense absurdity of it all. But he cannot really find a good reason to refuse, his arm rendering him useless with _Kikoku_ at least for another week; and so, with a heavy sigh, he grabs the nodachi at his side and hands it over cautiously.

“She’s cursed,” he drawls, knowing Zoro couldn’t really care about that. His own swords sing discordant songs across the battlefield—ones that Law pauses at, ones that make his blood _burn_.

“Heavy,” is all Zoro says in return, weighing the sword with one hand at her hilt. “Well-made.”

Law watches the process, _Kikoku_ adjusting to a new presence, Zoro adjusting to her. Seeing her in the afternoon light, he’s almost glad for the offer, her sheath caked in dried blood and crusted with sea salt. The braid he had fashioned all those years ago with Shachi is now frayed and tattered, barely a thread of it left; the white fur around her hilt now red… _ruined_.

Law feels then a divot in space, a dent in time—and again, wonders how things could be better. Wishes desperately for it so, yet knowing they aren’t; that they never could be.

He swallows. “She’s like an old friend to me,” he finds himself saying, surprised at his own voice, the invite for conversation.

Zoro nods, drawing _Kikoku_ from her sheath slowly. “It should be that way.” He has no fear holding her, and Law can feel she appreciates that, somewhat, voice quiet through the blood that soaks her blade. “I can see you care for her. She holds a lot of your thoughts.”

He says nothing, and Zoro does not press. He takes the oil from his side, dabbing it on cotton wool, and starts cleaning the bloodstained blade carefully. There is a method to his movements, one that is strange to see on a man usually so flippant. Law has seen him only this way when he fights—finds he admires it, to some extent, the cold logic and emotionlessness of a man driven by one goal.

If nothing else, they are alike in some basic way, and that he admires, too.

Law looks at the curtains on the window and says, “You killed Pica.”

Zoro nods.

“How?”

He shrugs, continuing to dab the edge of the blade with care and precision. The room is getting warmer, and Law shifts under the bedclothes, something worrying the edges of his thoughts.

“Just… Mugiwara- _ya_ did not kill Doflamingo,” he says, bitterness resting on his tongue.

“Don’t think too much on it,” Zoro replies. “He’s not like that.”

“Why?”

Zoro shrugs again. “Dunno.” A pause, then: “Why did you save him?”

“I didn’t—” Law stops.

Zoro places the cotton wool beside him, and takes up his whetstone, studying _Kikoku_ ’s temper for a beat in the setting sun. With meticulous care, he runs the stone along her edge, paying attention to the curve of her profile, the natural swoop of Law’s blade.

“I didn’t save him.”

“That’s not what he said.” The way Zoro speaks makes it clear who he believes. Law’s jaw tenses, but the first mate just continues, almost rushed, “So, thanks.”

His teeth hurt. “You changed the subject.”

Another shrug. “Had to say it at some point.” The _shing_ of _Kikoku_ almost drowns out his voice. “Been thinking it for a while.”

“It was nothing benevolent, if that’s what you’re thinking, Zoro- _ya_.”

“Sure. All part of some grand plan, then?”

“No.” Stops. Frowns. Glares. “ _Yes_.”

Zoro laughs at that.

Law shudders a breath. Swallows. “Well—” He pauses for half a second—long enough for Zoro to look at him, waiting. “I’m only alive now because of him.” Truth. “I guess we’re even.” Also a truth.

But.

Zoro’s mouth twitches, curving into a smirk. “Is that what you think?”

Law frowns again, mind suddenly blank. The stone returns to the blade, running along it in one smooth motion. Then two. And three. Law counts the movements, the ticking seconds, the breathing of Luffy in the distance.

 _Kikoku_ sings.

“Luffy’s not like that,” Zoro adds eventually, hint of pride in his voice. Says again, “Don’t think too much on it.”

Law hums; looks past him, to Luffy sprawled across the bed, the still shape of his face. A line of drool traces from the corner of his lips, down his chin; the profile of his chest in the sunlight: rising, falling, rising, falling. Alive. Somehow.

The space between them suddenly feels inconsequential. Luffy is close. Too close. Wonderfully close. Law wants to touch him—needs to feel that heartbeat, that steady breathing, the softness of his skin.

They are quiet for some time after that, Law surprised at himself to find a comfort in Zoro’s words. The swordsman continues his methodical process, and Law thinks about his blade when Bepo had presented it to him over eight years ago—remembers him saying he was sorry they couldn’t afford something better. Law thought she was beautiful, then, her temper straight and sure in the candlelight of the sub. And his heart _aches_ at the memory, a nostalgia that claws at his chest, that flutters his stomach.

He misses it—that—something. Wants it back, almost curling in on himself at the thought of—whatever it is. This. What pulls at his heart. What he used to be, and now what he—

Isn’t.

“Done.” Zoro holds her up to the golden glow of the setting sun, metal catching disappearing rays and mirroring them across the blank shack walls. With a satisfied nod, he takes her sheath and slides her back home, offering her to him with two hands—like an olive branch, a token of piece, a breath of trust. “Here.”

Law wraps his hand around her hilt. “Thank you, Zoro- _ya_.”

And he means it, not just for that, but for something more—and the swordsman nods once as an answer, before letting go and gathering his effects, leaving Law very much alone.

In the silence, he looks out to the window again, to the red sky, the golden fields, the giant piles of rubble, a scion of a fallen kingdom. Takes a breath. And lets it go.

 

Night descends with a warm fire outside, laughter, the sliver of a silver moon.

Law continues to watch Luffy.

His hair is slicked with sweat; sometimes he will shiver, violently, tremors that shake his whole frame. There are moments where his breathing labours. Other times where Law sees his heart hammering, too hard and fast, like when he enters Gear Second.

The third time it happens, Law’s throat closes up, and without realising what he’s doing, he stumbles to a stand. He makes it to the bed, leaning heavily on the headboard, down near Luffy’s face. Law feels his presence, serene and peaceful, wrapping around him like a woollen blanket, incredibly near and warm.

Luffy whispers something incoherent, brows crinkling in a soft frown, and Law’s hearts gives one very loud, one incredibly purposeful, _thud_.

“Mugiwara- _ya_.”

No answer. Law pulls a wooden chair by the windowsill beside the bed and sits, hands templing as he rests his elbows on his knees. He listens keenly to the world; inane chatter filtering in from outside—Franky laughing and Usopp yelling. Someone passes by the window, blocking out the firelight that dances across the dark cabin temporarily, before it is back, catching in Luffy’s soft hair, dancing over his closed lids.

Mustering all his strength—which is not much, but _enough_ —Law holds out his hand before him, and opens Room.

It flickers terribly. Sparks around the cabin like wild electricity, seeking out a ground. It only covers himself and the bed, and already Law can feel himself slipping from the effort of it all, his brain fogging, the world spinning.

He manages to focus, blinking slowly. Tries to pay attention to each tiny detail—flickering firelight, smell of perfume, the wooden house creaking as it settles into the cold night. Luffy materialises in layers before him—scarred skin, fine layer of fat, frayed muscles, chipped bones. Blood pumping steadily through it all. There’s a small stutter to his heart, an odd rasp to his breathing—but nothing serious.

He holds a breath.

_Nothing serious._

He needs to breathe.

_Alive._

Room centres, flashes, disappears.

Law gasps a breath, falling forward, edges of his mind fading to black. He reaches out, hand finding something solid and warm— _Luffy_.

He tries desperately to blink back, focuses on the fire—gold, red, yellow, _focus_ —but the darkness is closing in, his eyes drooping shut—and all he can see in the abyss is Luffy’s blood, swimming through his veins; his breaths, calm and steady; his heart, _thud, thud, thud_.

Law slips into nothing, palm splayed open on Luffy’s chest, his warmth thrumming through his own body like electricity.

And for once, Law does not dream.


	4. make you happy.

**make you happy.**

Luffy hums.

Law has been awake for some time, sitting in that wooden chair, stiffed-back with his eyes tightly shut. There’s a warm breeze sweeping through the cabin, accompanied by the soft, low _chirrup_ of cicadas. Sunlight burns the back of his eyelids, white spots filling his vision.

He knows they are alone. Feels it, as Strawhat mills about the house, just humming and humming—his presence like a mischievous spirit, waiting for something to happen. Law breathes in deep, imagining where Luffy is in this space, ghosting around all four corners of the cabin walls; what he may be doing, what he’s touching, what he’s thinking.

There are times where Law nearly speaks—where he slips, loosens, words caught in his throat. But something will always rear its ugly head as an excuse: the princess entering the house for a check-up, Luffy falling back asleep, his crew demanding his attention through the open window with food and banter. And it leaves Law mute—leaves him stuck. Leaves his mind blank, breathless, everything he can’t say—won’t say—fading into the silence that stretches between them. All he does is sit and think; think about telling Luffy that he would have rather died than see Doflamingo alive. Think about saying how lost and directionless he now is—that the thought of the open ocean knots his stomach, clenches his jaw, leaves him anxious and hurried, mind dizzy.

Luffy is solace, he knows. And Law is consumed by desperation for it. By need. And a part of him, now, wants nothing more than to grab Strawhat’s shoulders—to shake something out of him; something dark and _human_ , something to remind Law that he is worthy of his company, that he is _worth_. He wants to see Luffy crack, to say—just fucking _say_ —that Law almost killed him, too; Law bought him here and divided the world, fractured the space. He wants Luffy to realise that he was used, nothing more, nothing owed—to believe Zoro, _that nothing is owed_ —

Luffy hums.

And Law opens his eyes.

“Oh! Torao?! You’re awake!”

“I am.”

There is peace in the cabin—a quiet that swallows his words. Midday sun pools heavy and warm through the windows, and Strawhat sits on the kitchen bench, kicking his legs out; back, forward, back, forward; left, right, left, right.

He smiles. “I’m so glad.”

Law leans forward, running a hand through his matted hair and looking out the window, away from the blindness that is Strawhat. He blinks in the sunlight, and yawns. “Where is everyone?”

“Oh. They went shopping. For food! Franky’s cooking a barbeque tonight.”

“Right.”

“And Zoro said I couldn’t go because of the marines everywhere.” Luffy pauses, hums for a bit, then asks, “Do you like barbeques, Torao?”

Law is back to staring at him. Somehow. Watches as his legs kick the air, relaxed and free, his own thoughts a knotted mess caught in his throat. He feels dirty, grimy, and Luffy looks so clean, so whole, patiently waiting for Law’s answer, like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“I don’t care,” is all that he can say, voice raw.

“Well, Franky cooks really good barbeques. Not as good as Sanji’s, but there’s lots of meat!”

Law stays silent. Considers the weight of his thoughts, stomach churning. Hunching over like he can curl into himself, maybe hide before he says something stupid, does something stupid. Almost says, right then and there, _why did you interfere, how are you so_ good—

Luffy barrels on, “Sanji’s gonna cook a banquet for us when we go to your _nakama_. He’ll cook something for everyone. Do you have a cook? We should have two banquets.” He stops again, for only a beat, eyebrows knitting together with a frown. “I’m hungry now, Torao. Let’s get some food.”

“No,” Law deadpans.

“Huh?” He laughs. “But we can wear our disguises!”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Law snaps through his continuing laughter, the sound much too free. “Everyone knows what we look like now. Are you trying to get yourself noticed?”

Luffy cocks his head to the side. Stays silent for— _one, two_ —three beats.

Then says, voice suddenly quiet and low, “Why are you still scared, Torao?”

Law’s heart drops. “ _What_?”

Even though he knows—oh, he _knows_. And it is a stabbing in his chest, one that will not leave him for the rest of the day, one that he is sure Luffy can _see_.

Law thinks about leaving, then and there. Thinks about grabbing his hat and _Kikoku_ , and not looking back—forgetting Strawhat and the blinding sunlight that spills over him, the softness to his words.

“Why are you still scared, Torao?” Luffy repeats, except now there’s a scratchiness to his voice, a rasp—and stupidly— _idiotically_ —Law thinks for a blissful second, that maybe it’s because Luffy understands what he feels in that moment, the weight of the world in this tiny room. “I thought you’d be happy we kicked Mingo’s ass!”

“That’s not—”

He stops, and Luffy stares. Waits. Expression indecipherable.

“That’s not how happiness works,” Law finally says, voice whisper soft. “And Doflamingo is still there, Mugiwara- _ya_. It’s not—I’m not—”

 _Fixed_.

Luffy stays silent; looks at him with an expression that makes Law feel he knows something—something beyond his own comprehension. And again, he wants to grab Strawhat—to shake the _idiocy_ out of him. To ask the questions balled up in his throat— _what is that face, what do you know, how can I be different, how are you_ free?

But he can’t—won’t—will never. Just stands, so abruptly, the chair behind him clatters to the ground, shattering the moment like glass.

“Wait! Torao—”

Law crosses the threshold to the bathroom, closing the door behind him with shaking hands, cutting Luffy off. His teeth hurt from gritting too hard, and he paces the tiny space for a few moments—back, forward, back, forward, back, forward—before he shakes himself, rubbing a hand down his face in frustration.

_Coward._

He turns on the shower—hot, until steam fills up the tiny space, fogging the mirror. Moisture tracks down the stark white tiles, and he steps under the stream with a shudder, fully clothed, the heat _burning_ his skin, suffocating him.

It’s wonderfully comforting.

The first minutes are slow, thoughtless, Law just watching the myriad of reds and browns swirling down the drain into nothing. His coat weighs heavy on his shoulders, and he shudders a breath, peeling it off carefully before dumping into onto the floor with a _thud._

Hurts. Every cut, every bruise, like fire. There’s a peace in it, however—slipping thoughtlessly into doctor mode, tending his own wounds like he would his crew. He works down his body, eventually taking off his jeans and underwear, letting the water cleanse and sterilise and heal. Law always found showers could have that effect—suggested it to any of his crew when they were sick. A blissful twenty minutes of not having to think; of not having to feel anything but the water, the patter, thundering across your skin.

Law leans against the wall—breathes. Deep. In. Out. Eventually, he turns off the shower, stepping out into the bathroom. The humidity is thick, making him drowsy and languid as he moves about the space. He finds a towel in the cupboard, bandages in a draw, and sets to work, toweling off and redressing his wound. He works the muscles in his arm as he goes, satisfied to see they’re knitting together thanks to Leo’s fruit—however painful it may be. Once his energy levels are back to normal, he’ll be able to work the rest with Room; hopefully before they make it to Wano.

Maybe.

Wringing out his clothes, Law drapes the towel and his coat over the shower rail, letting them drip dry. The day is warm enough that his jeans will dry on him—not that he had a choice, anyway, with all his spare clothes still on the Strawhat’s ship. Then, he wraps his hand around the door handle—pauses, breathes, pauses—and pulls it open.

Luffy is still on the bench.

Of course.

Still looking at him with that _look_ , like a ridiculous statue—like twenty minutes did not just pass. And when he sees Law, he does not change, does not move, just says, voice so inexplicably heavy, Law _almost_ breaks, _almost_ —

“Do you want to go kill him, Torao?”

It is impossible to breathe, caught in the doorway, his jeans dripping on the floorboards, just _drip, drip, drip_. “What?”

“Mingo,” Luffy states. He tilts his head down, hat shadowing his face from the too-bright sun. “Do you want to go kill him?”

Law can’t think. Can’t speak. Luffy not looking at him straight on, just waiting for an answer—for the truth. And Law can barely comprehend, here with a man he has spent the last month with—one he saved from _death_ , one who saved _him_.

He realises, then. Crystal clarity. Realises that Luffy is merely a construct of his understanding, a projection of his assumptions. And Law thought—arrogantly, stupidly—that he could read Strawhat like an open book; but he cannot, has barely even passed the first page, is not even reading it in the right _language_.

The silence between them is awfully heavy. Law swallows. Breathes. Asks, “Why would you suggest that, Mugiwara- _ya_?”

“Because—” Luffy looks up, his eyes burning with sudden anger, one that pours out of him, that crackles around the room, “—I want you to be happy, Torao! You’re my _nakama_ , now!”

“No, I’m—!” Law stops. Almost sighs, running a hand down his face. He crosses the room in four quick strides, taking his hat off the bedside and brushing the loose dirt from the fur. He fixes it on his head, a habitual movement that grounds him. Says, once again, voice steady, “That’s not how happiness works, Mugiwara- _ya_.”

“But you said that’s what you wanted!”

Law turns to him. Luffy’s hands grip the bench he sits on, knuckles turning white, face distorted in the sun.

“What I want, and what I want to be, are not the same.”

What happens next, Law can’t explain.

Luffy— _laughs._

Law clenches his fist, nails digging into his palms. He can't—just—“ _What_?”

“Of course, they are, Torao!” He’s still laughing—so loud and free and uncaring. Like the world suddenly makes sense. “That’s just stupid. Stop thinking so much!”

“Stop thinking so little,” Law snaps, annoyed. “You’ve been nothing but reckless this whole time, and it will get you killed.”

“Nope!”

Luffy launches off the bench suddenly, landing with a loud _slap_ right before Law.

“What are you—”

One hand holds down the hat on Luffy’s head, so close the ratty brim almost tickles Law’s neck—and the other reaches out. Slowly. Feathers gently across Law’s chest, tracing the thick black lines of his tattoo.

Law stops. Freezes. Forgets to breathe.

“I like these, Traffy,” Luffy says, voice weirdly soft. He traces the heart with his index, running over the swooping curves, dipping into the divots of Law’s muscle. He smiles. “So cool.”

Law can’t see his face under the hat—can hear the smile, imagining what he looks like. The dimples on his cheek, his perfectly straight teeth. And Law almost— _almost_ —takes Luffy’s hand. Wants to know, suddenly, if they’re as soft as they look, or sea-worn from years of abuse. Wants to know what Luffy feels when he touches like this, so open and careful, no space between them—no chance for space.

He swallows. Remembers to breathe. Manages, “Mugiwara- _ya_.” Law can barely hear his own voice over the intense, haphazard thudding of his own heart, pounding against his chest. “What—”

Something cuts him off. A yell, and Luffy snaps back suddenly with a, “Whoop!” running to the front door and wrenching it open. He bounds up and down on the spot, and Law can see a group of people making their way across the sunflower field, all carrying heavy bags or boxes. Their voices carry away with the wind, but he hears someone call out, the distinct sound of Luffy’s name.

Strawhat turns back to him with a wide grin. “The food’s here, Torao! Let’s go!”

 

Like most things Strawhat’s, dinner is not a simple affair. Though in hiding, a number of people they’ve met along the way make it to the field by sundown, all with offerings of food, music, and drink. When night finally descends, the place is alive with energy. Not even fear of marine presence dampens their spirits—and even Law, himself, eases in the fray.

It’s midnight when he moves away. The dim, crackling embers of the giant fire are almost absent against the roar of the ocean at the sunflower field’s edge. He finds himself there, long after the barbeque has ended, drunk off the sake Zoro continued to pour. Moonlight bathes the city, almost too bright, and Law leans forward in the long grass, coat discarded in the dirt next to him. It’s cool, dewy, and Baby 5 sits by his side with a content sigh, passing him a bottle with a smile.

“Do you want to talk about our sad pasts?” she asks flippantly, lighting a smoke. The stick illuminates all the gentle curves to her face, the soft pull of her lips as she smiles wryly.

“Shut up,” Law snaps. He takes a long sip of his beer, head spinning pleasantly.

She giggles. “You called me here!”

She’s drunk. He can see the blush to her cheeks—one that creeps up her neck, darkens her ears. And he wonders if she still likes mint ice-cream. He wonders if she’ll miss Buffalo. He wonders if she thinks about her mother, or if she remembers the cold nights on the ship, taking watch together, bickering about who has more blanket, or who fights better in the snow.

He wonders, he wonders, he wonders. And then, he sighs.

“Law?” She frowns. “You’ve gotten weird. Well, you were always weird. Hey, do you remember when Dillinger—”

She stops suddenly, lips pressing together in a thin line.

“Forget it,” he says bitterly, words misting the air before him. “Forget them.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Baby breathes. “You left. We thought you’d come back. I always hoped you would come back.” Her voice cracks a little, and she leans forward, grabbing her ankles in the long grass. “I thought when you got better, you would. Then, we saw your wanted poster. Heard about your crew.”

He huffs a laugh. “I was never coming back.”

“Yeah. That’s what they all said.” She lets out a long breath of smoke, watching it curl into the dark sky. “But I wanted you to. Y’know. Because… things. I thought—yeah.” She sighs. “Was gonna kick your ass on Punk Hazard, though.”

“Of course.”

They stay silent for a while, listening to the waves berate the coast. He can hear it clearly, each wave washing over the other, crashing against Dressrosa’s boarders. And clearer than that—the sounds of the party behind them, all carefree laughter, old shanties; the sounds of relief and happiness.

“You always saw the best in people, Baby,” he mumbles, surprised at his own honesty.

She hums. “So. Is this goodbye, Law?”

“I… guess.”

Law tries to find the words for it—racks his brain for something other than the low buzz it offers. But, she’s the last tie in a very shitty rope, and he realises that, yes, she’s right—goodbye.

This is the end of it.

Law takes another drink, and stands. “Bye.”

Baby laughs. “Really, Law? Just like that?”

“Well—” He stops. “Wait. My coat.”

She rolls her eyes, picking it up as she stands and throwing it at him. “It’s cold, y’know. You could have offered it to me. I’m a lady.”

“It’s not cold.”

“People exist outside of you, _Law_!”

She goes to hit him, he goes to glare—but before they get to their usual childish routine, their eyes meet, and something… _happens._

Her hand lowers. His expression softens _._

Baby whispers, “He’s not coming back.”

“I don’t need you—shut up.”

“I know.” She tilts her head. “Do you believe me, though?”

His ears ring. He hears someone shout—Luffy, probably. Maybe. He rubs his eyes. “Not really, no.”

“Well, it’s true. I felt it.”

“Tch.”

“It’s true!” A silence settles between them again, and she moves a little closer, breath smelling like tobacco and wine. “You gonna be okay, Law?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.”

Endings aren’t always bad.

 

Law sees time move. Sees it tick by slowly. He sinks into the bed, the sheets smelling like salt, raises a hand in front of his face, all scarred and calloused, and he can hear shouts, someone laughing. He quite likes that sound—wonders what it’s like to laugh like that, dropping is hand with a _thwump_ on the sheets. The room spins. And time. Just ticking. Life dragging on like it always has, slowly, mockingly, constantly.

He’s tired, though. And can’t sleep. He thinks, maybe he slept too much. Then realises, he needs more—stuff. To fix it. Like energy. Or beer. He knows it’s somewhere here; goes to move, but his body is like lead, all dead and sore, so he just laughs and kinda… flops there.

Sighs.

The front door opens.

“Oi, Torao?”

There is the tell-tale _slap, slap, slap_ of cheap sandals on wood, and then Luffy’s head tilts into his line of vision, and he’s so _pretty,_ Law suddenly realises. All soft and smiling, hair clean and wispy.

“Hey.”

Luffy pouts. “Why aren’t you at the party?”

“Uh.” He blinks. Everything is blurry, but also clear, like he’s just seeing it all for the first time, senses heightened. Incredibly present. “Tired.”

“Oh.”

Luffy sits then, suddenly, the mattress dipping with his weight. He gives Law’s leg a small push, and he moves over for Strawhat, feeling him lay down by his side. His skin is warm. So warm. Too warm.

Law props up on an elbow to look at him, the glow of his skin, the _luminescence_ in the firelight _._ So pretty. Shouldn’t be. Just another pirate, should be quite… not pretty. Not that Law cares about that, usually. But Luffy feels different. Somehow. Not smooth but scarred—like he has a soul older than his body, as old as the world. And part of Law wonders how someone so scarred can be so soft, blinking down at his sloppy surgeon work with a frown.

“This,” Law says. Points to the x-shaped scar across Luffy’s chest. “Could’ve done better.”

Luffy laughs. “You look funny, Torao.”

Law ignores him. The scar curves and dips, pulls tightly across his dark skin in bright white lines, ones that shine in the firelight. He touches it, expecting texture, but it’s smooth and soft—nice, almost. And he can feel Strawhat’s heart, see the steady _thud, thud_ in his throat as he stares down at Law’s hand.

“I’m a better doctor now,” he mutters.

Luffy grins. “I know. But I like my scar!”

Law looks at him. His eyes are so nice, like chocolate. “Why?”

“It reminds me to not lose anyone else.” He pauses for a beat, then says, “I’m glad you didn’t die, Torao.”

Law flops down on his back, shoulder to shoulder with Luffy, and sighs. He stares at the ceiling, notices a cobweb in a corner—thinks about dust and memories and forgotten things, things he should forget but doesn’t. He wonders why Luffy doesn’t feel the same, why he wants to _remember_ bad things. _Does that make him strong or stupid?_ Law wonders. _Maybe both?_

Law sighs again. “I can’t die, Mugiwara- _ya_ ,” he says, voice distant to his own ears. “We still have to kick Kaido’s ass, remember?”

Luffy laughs. A loud and free sound, and Law laughs too, can’t help it, Strawhat just all amazing and loose and relaxed, so _nice_. So _pretty_.

“I like it when you laugh.” Luffy shuffles a little closer to him, incredibly warm, smelling of salt and smoky meat, fire and ocean and all the good things at once. “Oi, Torao. Dressrosa.”

“Huh? Oh.” Law blinks. Yawns. “Um. Animal.”

“I used that word last time.”

“ _I_ used Dressrosa last time.”

“Fine.” Luffy pouts at the ceiling for a beat, then laughs. “Zombie!”

“Electricity.”

“That was fast, Torao.”

He smiles. Closes his eyes and breathes deep. “Tired.”

“Okay.”

He feels Luffy shift, then something heavy and warm on his torso, the smell of salt thick in the air, and Law can feel him smile or something, can’t see his face, just this softness on his chest, a lightness through his whole body, and his eyes are shut, the world black and everything just—

Nice.

“Night, Torao.”

Everything just so _good_.

“Night, Mugiwara- _ya_.”

So  _good._


	5. straw hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ive tagged this, but jic, trigger warning for depressive thoughts described in detail.

**straw hat.**

_he knows where he is. it’s nothing particularly romantic—it’s not like this place haunts him, it’s not like his memories are tied to it, it’s not like it was the start of everything (or the end, or the middle, or anything). it just is, and not a lot more. and really, simply, there’s only a lot of blood, a lot of smoke in the air, and it’s cold. cold enough that bending his fingers hurts; cold enough that his nose is numb, ears stinging._

_he remembers thinking, in that moment, standing in the endless white, that snowflakes do not look like how he draws them. stupid. and he remembers Cora-san saying something, something he can’t quite hear as a rush of southern wind sweeps down the hill, gunshots slicing through the air._

_he wants to know. wants to hear his voice. he’s forgotten what it sounds like, how calming it was on those long treks, too tired to speak himself. just cora talking and talking and talking, telling stories of the sea and the people he knew from a life law will_ never _know. he wants to hear his voice so badly, wants to hear something other than this gaping silence, louder than any scream. wants to remember. wants to_ forget _._

_he opens his mouth, goes to speak, to say something. anything. but the snow disappears—and cora, too, law now just standing, surrounded by stone. unfamiliar. he has no idea what this means, if it even means anything, but it is as cold as minion island, rubble collapsing around him; someone screams, there’s the flutter of wings—_

_and then. that laugh._

that laugh.

 _behind him, penguin says, ‘captain,’ and then he’s gone. monet says, ‘_ law’ _, and then she’s gone too, and he’s stumbling, reaching out for her, his hand grabbing nothing but a handful of white feathers stained with blood. he’s near the edge of a cliff, and Doflamingo just laughs, just keeps laughing, on and on and on—_

_“why are you still scared?”_

_he’s so fucking close to falling off the cliff. there’s nothing but the dark below, the steady_ thud, thud, thud _of his heart as his toes curl the mountainside. he leans forward. breathes. the air is cold, stings his throat, his lungs; he’s falling. wants to fall. needs it._

_“i’m not scared,” he breathes. luffy is not there, but his touch ghosts across law’s skin, traces the lines of his tattoos, circles the letters on his fingers. everything smells of salt. “i’m not scared,” he says again, and this time, manages, “what do i do now?”_

_Doflamingo’s laughter is his only answer._

 

Days pass.

Bartolomeo’s ship is something to be desired—his crew, even more so. Law finds a lot of his time is spent hidden away in the unused infirmary, just sitting; opening and closing Room, trying (and failing) to use _Kikoku_ with his injured arm. Then, pacing. A lot of pacing. He can almost see the divot path in the wooden floorboards, the constant back and forth, his anxieties openly laughing at him through the murky dark.

Law knows depression too intimately to not feel it settling in, like an old, unwanted friend, and it’s happening too fast for him to ignore it, for him to _fix_ it.

His body is lead, his mind offering only fog and emptiness. And when it isn’t nothing, it’s everything, all at once: misconceptions, doubts, fears, replaying past conversations, battles or plans over and over in his head; picking apart his every word and action, each breath not enough to fill his lungs, stomach clenching, heart thudding too loud, rapid, painful. It exhausts him, and he is _weak_ , he knows, falling asleep at weird times of day from fatigue, sometimes for no longer than ten minutes. Then, other times, he will be out for twelve hours, dreams filled with feverish images that don’t make any sense: birds, snow, Cora, stone, Doflamingo’s laughter—

And Luffy. Always there. Whether Law sees him or not, he _feels_ Strawhat, hears each breath, smells the salt in the air, the freedom. His call from the shoreline, carrying with the wind, his touch feathering over Law’s skin, offering nothing but calm. A calm that Law can’t understand—that he just _cannot_ —

He is poison. He knows this now. He had been so ready to think that Doflamingo’s defeat was the answer, that the past was the problem. But no. It was him—is him. Has always been. Will always be.

This is all that he is.

Law clears his throat; stands from his bedroll and moves across the space of the infirmary, to the desk by the door. A plate of day-old food sits on its surface, and he picks at it idly, the crackers stale, the fruit dry, and peels apart the curtains that shadow his adopted room.

His eyes take a moment to adjust to the afternoon sun. The quarter deck before him is oddly quiet. Suspiciously so. His right hand taps the wooden desk— _tap, tap, tap_ —eyes scanning, pausing on Bartolomeo as he points to something in the distance. Luffy flitters in and out of the border, and Law can hear his laughter drifting through the closed window, followed by Usopp’s shouts. Something about “ _Don’t touch that!_ ”, something about the birds in the distance.

Law cannot make out what’s happening.  Frustration of the unknown nags him, but he stands still, does not move. Just _tap, tap, tapping_ , too lazy for motivation, caught on something that isn’t even there, the taste of bitter, old strawberries resting on his tongue. So detached from it all.

And that’s when it hits him.

As Strawhat thunders across the deck, Usopp in tow. As the wind picks up, ship rolling gently with the waves.

Law’s heart drops, and suddenly, acutely, he realises:

He is alone.

Completely, and utterly, alone. Suddenly, he feels the weight of what that means, what it is. That he is—

_Alone._

Law stands still. Raw. Stands, unmoving, for the longest time, heart beating slow. Just.

Luffy shoots across the deck again, all arms and legs and laughter. And Law cannot breathe.

Anything could happen to him in here, whether he leaves this room or not—no one would know. No one would care. His impact on the world is nothing, miniscule, he is _worthless_ , and Sengoku’s words play ‘round and ‘round in his head, like a sad song, a story without an ending: _“Don’t question someone’s love”_ —but all Law can think is _what does that mean_ , _why does that mean anything at all, what_ is _that_ —

A loud knock on the door jolts him. Law takes a shaky breath, lets the curtain fall. Pauses. Waits. Until the knocks sound again, cutting through the silence: _knock, knock, knock,_ sharper this time, more impatient.

“What?” Law snaps. He stares at the closed door, eyes tracing over the wood grain patterns, waiting for an answer but receiving nothing besides silence. He grinds his teeth, irritated. Says stiffly, “It’s unlocked.”

The door opens, and Zoro sticks his head in. He looks as though he is about to say something, but seems to stop himself, dark gaze roaming slowly over the room. There’s barely any sunlight in here, but Law can see him pause on every detail—the overturned chair, the unmade bed, clothes thrown about the floor. The food. The empty bottles. Open medicine cabinets. A thousand unspoken words.

Law stares until Zoro looks to him once more; holds the first mate’s gaze, _daring_ him to make comment. But Zoro is smarter than he looks; wise, too, and just simply walks in, closes the door, and sits on the first chair he sees.

He props his trio of katana at his side and yawns loudly.

“What are you doing?” Law glares at him. Company is the last thing he wants. Needs. “Leave me alone.”

Zoro ignores him.

He draws his sword, the black one, its mournful call cutting through the still air of the infirmary. Turns it left, turns it right, studying it with a sharp eye in the dark. Then pulls a whetstone from his pocket and runs it along the blade, painfully slow.

“What are you _doing_?” Law repeats again. He hears wind pick up the sails outside. His voice has a different sound. _Déjà vu_ makes his head spin, and he could almost laugh at this, at Zoro, at himself.

Almost.

Zoro answers, “Sitting.”

_Ah—_

Law leans against the desk and folds his arms. The temper of Zoro’s blade looks foreboding, almost red, as if bleeding. He stares at it for some time, mouth inexplicably dry. His head hurts. His arm hurts. He wants, desperately, to be left alone, to not play this stupid game, the one that every Strawhat seems to _insist_ on forcing him to play.

But the minutes drag on, and Zoro just carefully sharpens his blade, and does not say a word. Up along the temper, steady and sure, following the curve, soothing its cries.

Law rubs at his temple. The shouting outside escalates, and his control flickers. “What happens when you achieve it, Zoro- _ya_?” he breathes, almost hoping the swordsman doesn’t hear him.

There’s no answer for the longest time. Just the mocking _shing_ of stone on metal.

Then: “A sharp sword.”

“No.” Law stares at him. Zoro lowers his blade, pausing his movements. His mouth quirks upward. “When you become the world’s greatest.”

“When, not if?” he asks, still smirking.

“I have no doubt in your crew’s abilities,” Law snaps, suddenly irked. “That’s obvious.”

Zoro snorts, returning to sharpening. He yawns again, and it feels like an insult, a mocking jab. Law is suddenly hyper aware of the space they share, the darkness, his desperation leaking from him, his guard that has cracked under pressure. He taps his boot, Luffy’s laughter drifting through the window behind him, uncontrolled — _shishishi_. His stomach jolts at the sound.

He wants to hide. From this. From Zoro. From all of them.

Zoro answers, “I’ll stay with him.”

“Even when he’s King?”

“ _Especially_.” He says this like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “When you reach your goal, you’re free.”

This, he says, with even more conviction, and Law cannot help but flinch at that. Too much familiarity in those words. Too much hope. He feels anger and bitterness towards his own heart, and he’s so full of fear, so full of doubt, that surely a man like Zoro can see it, can _smell_ it on him.

Law shakes himself from the thoughts; straightens up and takes a breath. Asks, “You don’t look to the next one?”

Zoro’s eye locks on him then; pins him against the desk with ferocious intensity. Savage, almost, reading Law like an open book. He’s not so arrogant to guess what Zoro can read, what he hears between the lines.

_I’m lost._

“What next one?”

 _Ah_.

Law blinks. Licks his lips.

Zoro continues, “I’ll be happy with freedom. I’ll be happy with Luffy.”

Law’s too weak to stop the scoff, the snort of disbelief that escapes him. “Settle down and die, then?”

Zoro’s eye could burn a hole through him—full of mirth, and worse: _understanding_. “Is this better?” he asks.

It is a question that does not need an answer. An unfair accusation, and Law _knows_ Zoro is aware of it. He told them nothing of his reason behind Dressrosa, aside from the dangling Yonko bait; kept his distance, and still.

They know too much. He is weak, and they can all see it.

“Let’s go.”

Abruptly, Zoro stands, chair scraping loudly on the wooden floor, shaking Law from his thoughts.

Law frowns. Stalls. “What?”

Zoro does not answer, merely grabbing _Kikoku_ from her perch by the bed and throwing her at Law without a word. He catches the nodachi with one hand, watching, perplexed, as Zoro walks to the door, throwing it open and looking back at him with a smirk.

“C’mon, Broody, let’s spar.”

Law splutters. “ _Broody_?”

But Zoro’s already out on the deck, the tell-tale _shing_ of his blades being drawn giving Law no chance to argue. He follows the swordsman curiously, shading his eyes from the bright evening sun as they adjust to the light. To his right, by the infirmary door, there’s a soft hum.

“Torao- _kun_.” He turns as Robin closes her book with a _snap_ , sitting in a banana chair with Kin’emon at her side. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Ah, Law- _dono_!” Law’s eyes shift to the samurai. “According to the navigator, we should be at Zou in three days!”

Robin nods with a small smile. “Our supplies will last.”

Law stares at them. Then, flatly: “Good.”

From behind, there’s an “Oi!” and Law turns to see Zoro pulling out his white sword, clenching it between his teeth and grinning around the hilt. “Let’s go.” He’s impatient, shifting from foot to foot, muscles tensing visibly underneath his robe as he flexes the two blades in his hands.

Robin giggles softly. “Good luck, Torao- _kun_.”

He can’t shake the sudden feeling that this is a set-up. Frowning, Law idles towards him, rotating his shoulder and testing out the stretch and give of his injured arm. It is enough. He pulls _Kikoku_ out slowly, Zoro’s eye watching him hungrily, like a predator.

“Rules?” Law asks.

Zoro scoffs, a sound muffled by his sword. “No holds barred. Use your devil fruit.”

He raises a disbelieving brow. “Are you sure you want that, Zoro- _ya_? It would—”

 _Kikoku_ is up just in time, catching the sharp blade of Zoro’s cursed sword before it slices through his torso. He’s grinning, feral, jumping back from Law, eye scanning for another advantage before he lunges again.

Law smirks. He knows he’s too weak right now to face the swordsman front on—just holding _Kikoku_ steady pains his arm. He needs to be clever about this. To plan. Stall the man, if only for a moment.

He gives Zoro enough momentum to think that he has the upper hand, before Room is up and Law switches himself with a wooden chair across the deck. It splinters and shatters beneath Zoro’s katana, but he does not even pause, rounding on Law immediately and swiping his blades clean through the air.

Law deflects the blow, _Kikoku_ humming pleasantly in his hand. With Room still up, he’s able to map the whole deck—every speck of dust, every spray of ocean that patters across the quarter deck. Zoro sprints towards him, all brute force and snarls, and Law pauses only for a moment, searching, searching, searching.

Zoro is only a blade-length away when the barrel hits him. Out-of-nowhere, a cheap trick exploding on his blind side.

He stumbles, and Law drawls, placing _Kikoku_ ’s point carefully on his chest, right at his heart, “Still want me to use my fruit?”

Zoro grins up at him, face darkened with adrenaline. “Bastard.”

_Ah._

Law’s heart stutters, breath caught, mouth dry. Zoro is quite beautiful in this orange-red light. Primal. Beastly, like an untamed animal. His heart hammers in his throat, and Law stares at it, and him, something warming his gut, something thrilling, something _insatiable._

Zoro bows, and turns his head, white blade tapping on _Kikoku_ with a _ting_. Snarls, “Wanna keep going?”

Law doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

They keep at it for an hour. A perfect dance across the deck, bright flashes of blue broken by the slicing of their blades—retreating, advancing, in and out, close and far.

He has always loved this—always loved the elation adrenaline gave him, like something was free, his control snapping and unfurling with fierce vivacity. He thrives off _Kikoku_ ’s screams, her thirst for blood. And Zoro is the perfect partner, reading Law’s movements before he has even thought of them; katana catching his nodachi, singing through the afternoon air. Law can see the hunger within him, stirring, and it drives the captain on, pushes him to his limit. He wants to _win_ , to see Zoro falter, to _better_ him.

The sun dips further, and exhausted, Law finally pauses, panting heavily in the middle of the quarter deck with his free hand up. He leans on _Kikoku_. Breathes. And that’s when—

That’s when he feels it. Something on him. Something pressing him down, burning into his back. Weighted. Heavy. With purpose.

He swallows, mouth dry, shaking it off. “Enough.”

Zoro’s a metre away from him, shoulders heaving up and down with each breath. “Give up?” he rasps.

Law snorts. “Hardly.” His hands tremble as he slides _Kikoku_ back into her sheath, watching Zoro do the same with his three. His arm _hurts_ , but it feels good. Normal. He lets out a low hum. “Zoro- _ya_. I… enjoyed that.”

A bizarre truth. Zoro just nods a response. His cheeks show faint colour, sweat beading on his forehead.

There’s still that thing, though. The feeling. Pressing into him.

And all at once, Law realises what it is.

Zoro looks up, Law following his gaze. Luffy stands on the top deck, staring down at them both, expressionless. Unreadable. Disturbingly so. His face is cut by the shadow of his hat, and there is such an air about him there. A power. Law feels as if he is sinking into the wooden planks, cracking under the pressure of Strawhat’s intensity.

“What?” Zoro drawls, half-amused.

Luffy blinks, like someone has slapped him awake; then grins, pushing his hat further up so sunlight hits his face. His eyes shine. “Dinner’s ready, Zoro!”

“Oh?” Zoro smirks. “Is there booze?”

The swordsman jumps, grabbing the rail and pulling himself up effortlessly. He lands next to Luffy, Kin’emon intercepting him and commenting on something about his swords—something about a step, Zoro’s sleight of hand that Law almost missed halfway through their spar.

Luffy’s still staring at Law. Like he’s waiting. Like he’s caught in a trap. And Law can’t—can’t think or anything, not with Strawhat looking at him like _that_ , so—so—

Law turns. Takes a deep breath. He crosses the threshold of the quarter deck, stepping up to the taffrail and gripping it tightly. He leans heavily against it, _Kikoku_ in the crook of his shoulder; watches as the sun drifts closer towards the sea. Just breathing. In. Out. Feeling the wood beneath his fingers, following the divots in the grain.

The adrenaline draining from his body leaves him cold and empty. Listless. His heart beats loudly, out-of-time, irregular. A pattern with no rhythm, and he tries to calm it. Tries to think rationally, medically, calculating each beat and pause, when they should happen, why they happen.

He cannot shake Luffy’s gaze from his thoughts though. The quiet intensity. The heaviness in the air, pulling him down.

 _Weak_.

“Oi, Torao.”

Law doesn’t realise Strawhat is by his side until it’s too late, the captain’s bare shoulder brushing up against his own, pushing into him. His heart picks up speed, chest warming.

“Dinner’s ready,” Luffy says, uncharacteristically calm.

“I’m not hungry.” Law looks at him out the corner of his eye, Luffy leaning over the taffrail and watching the waves with a small smile. The deck is now empty, and Strawhat is warm, inviting. Content, almost melting in the evening heat. “Leave me alone.”

“But I haven’t seen you in days, Traffy!” he moans. “Did you know we went to an island? It smelt like Zoro.”

“I know. I sent Firefox- _ya_ to you.”

“Oh.” Luffy pouts. “You should have come.”

He does not answer. There is a long silence. Luffy lets one arm dangle over the rail, resting his head in the crook of his elbow. Law thinks he can hear him humming over the lapping waves, slapping the hull of the ship beneath them. Easy. Carefree. Peaceful. And his stomach does that thing, flipping pleasantly the way it always seems to do when Luffy is like this—so easy and affectionate.

Law’s hands curl into fists on the rail, dig into his palms. He stares at them, the tattoos, the scars. Head pounding, stomach swaying, heart still out of time. Hollow.

He shifts _Kikoku_ slightly, and Luffy starts.

“Did you see that?”

Law looks at him. “What?”

Luffy is up, leaning dangerously forward, Law almost of a mind to grab his shirt and wrench him away from the water. But then Strawhat gasps, of all things, and points out to the horizon with a wild smile, one that just _belongs_.

“Cool! Torao! Look!”

He does. The ocean is still, calm. Just this endless fiery blue. And then:

_Oh._

The water breaks, white foam exploding into the air—and with it, a whale. So great and large it almost blocks the setting sun, raining water through the air like a thousand glittering gems. Law’s breath catches, and he smiles, hands relaxing their grip on the rail, Luffy exclaiming loudly by his side.

“There’s more,” Law drawls, noticing another, smaller one breach a little further away. He points to it. “A pod of humpbacks.”

“How do you know?” Luffy asks, eyes fervently scanning the water for more.

“I’ve seen a lot on the submarine. They’re usually quite curious.”

“We should get the others,” Luffy says.

But instead of moving towards the galley, he sidles closer, shoulder deliberately pressing against Law’s own. Sunlight flashes across his cheek, and he smiles, lips pressed together.

And hums.

It carries away with the wind, with another whale breach, its child not far behind. One after the other, broken in between by Luffy’s song, his weight leaning heavily against Law. And the surgeon lets out a breath, as if he’s been dealt a blow, something falling from him as he sags against the rail, suddenly empty, suddenly _exhausted._

“My _nakama_ are strong, aren’t they, Torao?” Luffy asks softly, eyes still on the water.

“You don’t need me to say it, Mugiwara- _ya_.”

Luffy sniggers. “You’re strong too. Really strong.”

 _No_.

“And I’m excited to meet your _nakama_!”

Law bows his head, letting his hat shadow his face. The air is cooling with the setting sun, and he stares at his hands, at _Kikoku_ ’s scratched and battered scabbard, at the lines in the wood beneath his palms. He remembers saying goodbye to them all. He remembers being so ready to never see them again. He remembers one night on Punk Hazard, watching the snow fall across the plains, wishing he said what he never could.

How much he loved them.

Strawhat nudges him gently. “Torao.” He pauses. “Torao?”

“What.”

“It’s okay.”

Law looks at him then. Really looks at him. Luffy staring at him with wide, understanding eyes; even though he could never understand, never _know_. Brown irises. Scar beneath his eye. Cracked lips. Same old Luffy. Free. That tattered hat.

“I—”

Law stops. Touches it. Doesn’t think about it, just reaches out and touches his hat, so close to him, so _close_. The smell of salt and grass, his warmth, his calmness, not a line of tension on his face. And his straw hat. It scratches the pads of Law’s finger, dry and itchy, kinda… glowing in the light. How strange. He holds his hand there for a moment too long, thinking of what to say, how to say it.

Law’s heart is so loud. Breathing so difficult. And Luffy is just—he is—

“Mugiwara- _ya_?”

Luffy hums acknowledgement, staring right at him, not looking away, not trying to. Smiling like he knows exactly what is happening; like he knows exactly what he is doing.

“Say it again.”

A whale breach. Closer this time. Loud. Neither of them turns to see it.

The ship sways, and saltwater rains down on them both, _pitter-patter_ like a sun-shower across the wooden deck.

Luffy’s smile widens. “It’s okay, Torao.”

_It’s okay._

And Law has never, ever, wanted to believe anything more.


	6. leeward side.

**leeward side.**

**(Zou)**

 

 

Another sleepless night. Morning is nothing but a blur, and then it’s midday: a humid, languorous affair.

Law leans against one of the ancient, moss-drenched trees, flicking through a borrowed medical text from Chopper. He’s yawning and rubbing his eyes, reading but retaining none of it. Unfocused. Annoyingly so. Though the Mink town around him mulls lazily in the sun, whispered words accompanied only by the clinking of dishes and call of gulls above, he finds himself distracted by it all, looking up into the endless blue, or just simply watching the way the Strawhats’ and his crew interact.

Ikkaku stands a few paces down from him, stretching to the slow melody of Brook’s violin. She’s talking. He cannot hear what she’s saying, but at some point, she stops her movements, throwing her head back and laughing aloud. The sound is as wild and untamed as her hair; it carries away with the gentle breeze, drifting towards him softly.

Law holds his breath. Finds it caught in his throat as he stares at her, heart swelling with something strong. Aching, almost.

So familiar.

Brook pauses his tune. “Any requests, Ikkaku- _san_?”

She hums, her clear hazel eyes suddenly finding Law’s through the midday haze. She holds him for a moment, catching him in the act of staring; but he does not look away, finds no need to.

“Captain? What was that shanty we used to sing before leaving the North Blue?”

A derisive snort sounds from behind her. “Captain never used to sing with us!” Uni sits up in the grass next to Ikkaku’s feet, grinning up at her. “Remember when we went out to Fisherman’s Point, and there was that dock keeper who demanded a song for payment?”

“Oh yeah,” Ikkaku answers, smiling fondly as she looks to the distant sky, voice full of nostalgia. “Captain cut off his arms.” Brook splutters a little at that, but Ikkaku merely shrugs, continuing, “What about _Old Swansea_?”

“Aye, that’s a good one,” Uni agrees.

Brook returns his bow to the violin, pausing to look at Law, as if waiting for the captain’s permission. Law gives a curt nod, and the music starts up instantly, an upbeat tune that Ikkaku sings softly to as she resumes her stretching, Uni falling back into the grass with a satisfied sigh.

Law smiles to himself, closing the book and looking away. _Kikoku_ is pressed against his side, and he grips her scabbard, eyes fluttering closed briefly. His head spins with exhaustion, and he allows himself a moment, letting his shoulders relax as he leans further into the mossy oak. Ikkaku laughs again; continues the song, words floating through the dark—soft, gentle. Like home.

_“And when we’re leaving the old Fallerones,_

_“Bound for my ol’ Swansea.”_

Law breathes deep.

The air is curiously thick with salt, and he hears something over Ikkaku’s singing—something so far away. Something all too familiar and eerie.

_“I know you’ll pull my girl, on the string—”_

The sound of a wave—

_“For to haul me in from the sea.”_

And then, she falls away. Everything does, all at once, and Law stands in a dark emptiness, _Kikoku_ still in hand, but nothing else.

Just. Nothing.

He thinks he’s asleep. Maybe. It has never come to him this easily before, but if he focuses he can still feel the sun, warm and heavy in his lap like a cat—the voices of his crew, Ikkaku’s singing, a scratching he can’t place.

Regardless, Law is cautious. With a tentative step, he walks forward into the dark, boots _clicking_ loudly on what he can only assume is stone. One more _click_ —two, three, four. Each step draws him away, until he can hear and feel nothing at all anymore. He walks and walks, the abyss building around him; suffocating, choking his breath.

A rush of ice-cold wind passes through, goosebumps erupting on his bare skin. He shivers, pausing, looking around; but he cannot see anything—nothing, dark, _nothing_ —it’s just this freezing cold, the taste of salt, the roar of ocean waves.

He keeps walking for what feels like hours. At some point, he realises _Kikoku_ is gone—and then, there’s the ocean.

Water swirls around his ankles. Midnight black. Pulls him down, and he sways, trapped, heavy. Like it’s guiding him to somewhere—somewhere far below him, into the nothing.

“Law.”

He looks up. Monet stands before him, soaking wet. Water drips from the tips of her feathers, and she’s shivering, violently, her whole frame spasming. Her hair frames her face, slick wet, half-lidded eyes glaring at him through her long lashes.

He can see her pulse thrumming in her throat, skin paper thin.

“My heart?” There’s something in her voice. “You promised to serve our Young Master.”

He frowns. “What—”

 _“Law_.” Not a question. Not an address. A _plea_. She’s shaking, and he can see her ribs through her singlet, a cage trapping her heart. Her lips are blue, moving soundlessly, but she manages, “ _Why_?”

The crest of a wave at her feet, crashing into foaming white without any warning. She gasps, and he reaches out for her, hands clutching nothing but three white feathers, splattered with blood, just like every time before—just like _before_ —

 

Law gasps for air.

Everything is dark, and then there’s blinding brightness.

Sun. Still on that tree. And— _clink_ — _Kikoku,_ in hand. Ikkaku laughs, the violin reaches a crescendo, and Law realises he’s on land, he’s alive, hair not wet, skin warm.

A dream.

 _A dream_.

He’s surely falling into madness.

Law swallows, with difficulty, the scream built in his throat. Focuses on just breathing and breathing and breathing. Grass beneath him, damp, rich with the smell of earth and rain. His heart thuds loudly, painful against his ribs, and he takes a moment—two, then three—for it to steady, rubbing his face like that can get rid of the nightmare burning into his mind, trying not to think—don’t _think_. He sighs into his palm, frustration curling in his gut, body exhausted like he’s run a mile.

Then, he hears it.

This soft scratching; and small movements, a sharpness in the air, something that almost weighs heavy. The dream suddenly feels far away, and Law drops his hand, eyes searching only for a second before he finds its source—Usopp, sitting just to his left, against a cabin. The sniper is surrounded by all manner of things—tools and food and notebooks—but the one that has all his attention, he holds to towards the sunlight, hand sweeping across the paper in smooth, curving movements.

He pauses for a beat, frown darkening his long features, teeth worrying his bottom lip. Then, he looks up, directly at Law.

He can feel Usopp’s Observation Haki. Uncontrolled, sloppy, and Law wonders if the man even realises he’s using it—if he even knows he _can_.

Law holds his gaze. Usopp stares back, wide-eyed. Swallows, Adam’s apple bobbling nervously. And there is a full minute where the silence just stretches painfully between them, tension crackling dangerously through the open forest air.

Law finally speaks: “What are you doing, Nose- _ya_?”

Usopp lets out a sound—something between a squeal and a yell, dropping his pen and paper and pressing himself back up against the cabin in surprise. Like he _forgot_ that Law can talk. He’s still covered in all manner of bandages, and even from this far, Law can see the blood that stains the one wrapped around his right shoulder. Those small movements—drawing—opened the line of stitches on his upper arm. Careless. Law sighs.

“Sorry—I was—I can stop, if you’d like—”

Law raises a brow, smirking. “Stop what?” He waves a hand towards the other man. “You’re bleeding.”

Usopp frowns, glancing to his shoulder. He seems to relax a little, sighing audibly. “Oh, yeah. I’ll get Chopper to fix that.” He scrambles forward, picking up his tools again and settling them on his lap. He stares at the paper for a moment, eyes tracking across the drawing critically.

“What are you doing?” Law repeats, shifting slightly, relaxing further into the tree behind him.

“I was—uh.” Usopp holds the notebook up to Law and smiles sheepishly. “I was drawing you.”

Indeed, he was. Law can see it clearly in the light—sharp, thick outlines of his body, all corners and harsh edges; then the swooping curve of patterns travelling up his bare arms, the thick diagonal of _Kikoku_ cutting across the page. He has his hat, his spotted jeans: and smaller details. A severity to his posture. Guarded, almost, even on paper. Aloof.

There’s a curious personality to the page, Law finds. Acute. Succinct.

“Me?”

“Yeah! You know, you’re a good subject.” Usopp places the book back in his lap and flicks his pencil quickly across it. “I like to draw whenever I have time, but I haven’t really seen anyone like you before—not that—ah—like, not that that’s a bad thing—it’s just—”

“It’s fine,” Law drawls, cutting off his nervous rambling. “You’re very good.”

Usopp seems to relax again, throwing him an almost cheeky grin. “You get bored of drawing the same people, you know? Luffy’s just a blur when I try, and—well, most of my crew are… not like you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.” Usopp’s staring straight at him now, no hint of anxiety or tension. Law smirks, quirking a brow. “It’s a good—”

“USOPP!”

Usopp looks up, eyes nearly bulging out of his head at the sight before him. He picks up his notepad just in time to stop Luffy from crushing it, the small captain landing in his lap with an excited yell, not a second later. Law watches as the two are reduced to a writhing, chaotic mass before him, all yells and laughter shattering the quiet afternoon.

“You should have come on our walk! Chopper nearly fell off a cliff, shishishi!”

“Luffy—stop—get—Luffy!”

“It’s okay, I saved him.”

“Get—off—okay!”

They return to some normalcy. Luffy falls into place at Usopp’s side, nattering about Zoro getting lost, some food they found, a tree with a sword stuck in it. The sniper goes back to his drawing, humming and asking all the appropriate questions to keep his captain distracted. Eventually, Luffy tires of his own voice, casting a curious glance over Usopp’s shoulder at the notebook in hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Drawing,” Usopp replies, voice vague with concentration. “Drawing Torao- _kun_.”

“Oh—ah.”

Luffy stops, lips pressing together, face blank. He’s staring at the paper, but he says nothing more, just stares, strangely silent.

There’s something about him.

Law frowns, watching the scene from underneath the brim of his hat.

“What, don’t you like it?” Usopp’s voice is amused, pencil still idly scratching. “You usually don’t shut up about my drawings.”

Luffy doesn’t respond, and Law, oddly, finds himself gripping _Kikoku_ a little too tight, fingers pressing into groves and scratches worn in her hilt from years of use and abuse. His heart thuds. In this open air, it’s very hard to breathe, and Luffy’s shadowed gaze is heavy, calculating, staring at the drawing with frustrating obscurity.

Strawhat’s mouth opens, teeth pressing into his bottom lip—and. He _blushes._ A soft pink spreading slowly across his cheeks. He ducks his head down quickly, hat hiding his red face, and declares, “It’s good, Usopp!” Then, without any warning, he is _flying_ towards Law, laughter bubbling freely out of him.

His rubbery limbs wrap tightly around Law’s torso, and pull the surgeon in close, ignoring the spluttering protests. Luffy settles on his lap, pressing his face into Law’s chest, still laughing, carefree, happy, content, muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

“I like that it looks like you!” Luffy says. His voice is soft and gentle, incredibly fond.

Law’s heart stutters, and he actually hesitates for a beat, at a loss of what to say.

“Torao.”

“Get off me,” Law mutters, pushing his palm into Luffy’s cheek. All it does is stretch his neck and knock his straw hat off his head, the fool captain not budging an inch. “Mugiwara- _ya_ —”

But Luffy isn’t listening. “Did you see the tattoos Usopp drew? They’re so cool, Traffy, and you’re really tall, and your sword on the paper looks so scary, too—so _cool_.” He looks up, Law glaring down at him with a snarl. “What’s wrong? You look tired.”

“I am,” he answers between gritted teeth. His heart is beating terribly fast. “Let me rest.”

“But Traffy,” Luffy moans. “It’s still the day! And we have a party tonight. You’re gonna come, right?”

He doesn’t answer. Not at first. Just looks down at him, feeling the weight of Luffy’s body against his own. The sunlight casts long shadows across his deceptively innocent face, and Law stares, transfixed, studying the darkening bruise across his jaw, a gash under his left ear; gazes at the split in his lip that threatens to bleed with his smile. All new wounds from his latest adventure in the Zou jungle, and it’s so unbearably endearing, so absolutely _Luffy_.

Luffy says, voice much too small, “Please come, Traffy.”

Something tightens in Law’s chest. A soft admission—the realisation that his company is wanted.

Law’s mouth is dry, raw, when he replies: “Okay.”

Luffy’s answering smile is as bright as the midday sun. “Yosh!” And his arms tighten around Law, just for a small moment, a second of a beat, before he releases and makes his way back over to Usopp.

Salt hangs heavy in the air, heat exploding in Law’s chest.

“I want that drawing, Usopp!”

“Let me finish it first,” Usopp snaps. He’s scribbling madly now, utterly focused on his work.

“It looks finished to me.”

“You can’t even draw!”

“Oi, that’s not true! I—”

 “Captain!”

The moment shatters like glass.

 _Bepo_.

Law tenses immediately, reflexively readying _Kikoku_ for a fight. His eyes sweep the area, searching for any immediate danger, but finding none. Law sees Luffy frown, looking to the edge of the town with a curious _‘hmmm’_. He follows Strawhat’s gaze, and sure enough, Bepo comes out of the jungle, running, a small group of people following behind: two Minks, Chopper, Penguin and Shachi.

“What?” Law addresses Penguin as they near, standing slowly. “A ship?”

Law’s heart sinks at his own assumption. An immediate: _He’s found me_. There’s the taste of metal between his teeth, heart thudding, each breath dragging painfully through his throat.

“No.”

It’s Chopper that answers him. He’s in his larger form, and it takes Law a little too long to realise he has something—holding something to his chest—that it’s—

 _A body_.

“We can take her to that cabin,” one of the Minks say, pointing to the house just behind Usopp. “It should have some supplies and herbs.”

“She needs proper medical attention,” Chopper says. He sounds worried, but he works on keeping his voice level, steady, staring directly at Law as if pleading for help. “She’s been bitten by something. The venom—or something—maybe poison, I’m not sure—”

“Don’t worry!” The group turns, Luffy standing just to the side with his hands on his hips, grin wide. He’s brimming with pride. “Chopper’s the best doctor!”

“No, Luffy.” Chopper’s voice is rising slightly now, wavering with panic. “The venom has no antidote, I’ve already tried my hardest, I can’t—”

“It’s fine,” Law interrupts coolly, noticing the tears building in Chopper’s eyes.

Luffy’s head snaps towards him, frown deep set in his face. He tries to ignore it, but Strawhat has these eyes, this attention that makes him falter.

“Help Chopper, Torao.”

There is no argument to be had here, and Law swallows thickly, ignoring the order, the intense, unwarranted confidence from Strawhat.

“You’ve at least delayed her death, Tony- _ya_. Take her in.”

The cabin is wonderfully bare, aside from a lone bed, a table, chairs and dried herbs lining the ceiling. Chopper lays the girl down carefully on the cotton sheets, brushing her hair out of her face with delicate fingers. Each breath comes out as a pained rasp, and as Penguin and Shachi move the table nearer to their captain, Law measures her pulse with his fingertips, clocking each number in his head.

The two Minks leave, but Luffy stays, standing in the doorway, watching quietly.

“I’ll need your help, Tony- _ya_ ,” Law requests, breaking the tense silence. The Strawhat doctor is emptying his backpack on the table, sifting through his instruments. He passes Law rubber gloves, pulling a pair on himself. “I’m afraid I’m still quite weakened from the events of Dressrosa.”

“That’s okay,” Chopper says. “The wound is on her left shoulder. I’ve cleaned and shaved the area and found two small holes—what I think are bite marks. The Minks before told me of a spider in the area, but she had no reaction to the antivenom they had on hand…”

“How long ago did they give that to her?”

“Yesterday.”

“Captain!” Law casts Bepo a glance. He bows a sorry, continuing, “I don’t think the spider is venomous.”

Law hums. “Poison?”

“Bacteria, captain.” Bepo takes a breath. “Sorry!”

“Why are you apologising?” Penguin snaps. He looks to Law. “That should be fine, right, captain? Just remove it.”

Chopper nods rapidly, making a little _mm-hmm_ sound. “That’s what I was hoping you could do.”

Law opens his mouth to reply, but stops.

Luffy.

He walks further into the cabin, steps strangely slow and purposed, peering at the Mink girl quietly from underneath the brim of his hat. The whole room seems to wait on him, and it is in that moment Law realises: _of course_. That _of course_ they do, because that is what Luffy does, what Luffy _is_.

“Can you do it, Torao?” he asks.

He looks at Law. Looks right at him, and Law feels it then. Intensely. They’re the only two in the room, the space between them incredibly small, and it is so _bright_ , so _clear_.

“Yes.” There is no hesitation, and Law adds, smirk touching the corners of his lips: “Do you doubt me, Mugiwara- _ya_?”

Luffy sniggers.

“I’m going to search her body,” Law addresses, blinking back into the group. He snaps his gloves on. “If she wakes, hold her down.”

“Wait!” Chopper cries, suddenly back to panicking. “At least give her anaesthetic, you monster~!”

Law frowns over at him. “That would be a waste.”

Luffy’s laughter fills the cabin again, drowning out Chopper’s angry yells, and Law takes the opportunity in the fray to open Room, the dull blue light expanding with a dissonant hum.

Everything fades away to nothing. He focuses on the Mink girl, mapping out her body, taking the time to search every layer of her, every scratch, every bruise, every breath, each laboured beat of her heart.

There is a rhythm here. Habits and rituals he has obsessed over and learnt for more than a decade. Finding problems, testing solutions. There is no doubt in his ability, no second of indecision or worry.

A full twenty minutes pass before Law finally closes the space, teetering forward, drained and exhausted. He grips the bed to steady himself, and takes a deep breath, sucking in the stuffy air between his teeth. It is only then that he feels the weight of the cabin, five pairs of eyes waiting on his diagnosis with worried tension.

“Bacteria,” Law answers the unspoken, voice thick with fatigue. He looks at Chopper. “It’s out now. Just needs—rest.”

“Oh!” Chopper’s eyes widen. “Law, that’s amazing~!”

“Ahhh.” Luffy’s grin splits his face in half. “Shishishi! Traffy’s really good, huh?”

“Captain’s the best!” Bepo declares. “We would never have survived the Grand Line without him!”

Penguin and Shachi share a _look_ , and Law smirks, huffing a laugh. “You can take her, Tony- _ya_. Give her some anaesthetic—and antibiotics, if you have any.”

Chopper nods, scooping the unconscious girl up into his arms.

“Yosh!” Luffy cries. “Let’s go, Chopper!”

He’s grinning from ear-to-ear, looking at Law with utter trust and sincerity. And Law forgets to—

Well.

Forgets everything really, looking at Strawhat, unable to stop the slow smile spreading over his own face.

“Get some sleep, Traffy,” Luffy says, voice deep. “We have a party tonight.”

Law breathes then. Law breathes so deep. The smell of salt. The taste of it on his lips. “I know.”

They leave, the cabin falling incredibly silent.

Penguin and Bepo move the table back to its rightful place, and Penguin complains about the dried garlic hanging from the roof. Shachi brings Law a chair, and he practically falls into it, every muscle in his body refusing to cooperate. He watches the trio. Watching as they move about the space, bickering and making fun of one another, Bepo apologising while also stirring the pot; Penguin, as always, taking the bait and biting back to every subtle remark. Shachi flicks between sides, and he laughs—and Law can’t help laughing with him, because Shachi has one of _those_ laughs, like an infectious disease, even if the original gag wasn’t that funny.

As the sun starts its slow descent, the sky golden, Bepo sprawls out on the wooden floorboards and sighs. Penguin leans into him with a book; Shachi’s already on the floor nearby, fast asleep, and it isn’t long before the polar bear’s snores join in with his, a harmony Law that is all too familiar with.

He stands and settles into Bepo, shoulder brushing up against Penguin’s, and yawns. Without question, his first mate takes _Kikoku_ out of his grip and lays her carefully on his lap.

“How’s your arm, captain?” Penguin asks softly.

“Fine.” Law’s eyes flutter closed, suddenly weighted and heavy. “It will be fine.”

There is a long silence, filled only by the haphazard snoring and flicking of Penguin’s pages. Law focuses on the rise and fall of Bepo’s chest—the pressing of Penguin’s body into his side. Tunes out the buzzing of his own mind and just—Law just _is._

Wonderful.

Then:

“Captain?”

“Mmmm.”

“I’m glad you’re back.”

Law does not open his eyes. But he smiles, warmth curling and spreading in his stomach, swelling his chest, his heart.

This is his past and his present—his memories of these three. And it is everything: it is the why, the reason, his _life_ now—and he will remember this. This is important. This is _it._

“Me too,” Law whispers.

And he means it. He really does.

 

Night crawls in. Law wakes to a canopy of stars, alone, on the bed in that little cabin. Outside, he can hear laughter, cheers, clinking of glasses—someone yells Luffy’s name, and Law sits up then, rubbing a hand down his face and blinking back into the world.

No dreams. Thankfully. He takes a breath. The strong smell of meat fills the air, and his stomach growls in response, body automatically rolling out of the cot and making his way out. _Kikoku_ sits diligently outside the door for him, and Law notices in the dull light how clean her scabbard is now—and her handle—and—

 _Ah_.

A new braid has replaced the old, ruined one. Perfectly crafted—red, of course—and Law almost laughs then, muttering under his breath about _those idiots_ and _wasting their time_. But his heart is thudding loudly, and he is full of something despite his hunger, something inexplicable, something that feathers his soul.

“Oi.” Law shrugs _Kikoku_ into her place on his shoulder, looking away from the large gathering of people. Zoro’s standing on his right, two drinks in hand, passing him one over. Like he was there all evening. Waiting for him. “Here.”

Law takes it.

“I heard about this afternoon,” Zoro drawls with a knowing smirk, taking a step closer to Law. The party is exploding behind him, Luffy singing to Brook’s song along with the Mink leaders. Franky’s got a whole dance choregraphed, and Usopp is teaching Uni how to put chopsticks in his nose. “Chopper won’t shut up about it. Or your crew. _And_ Luffy.”

Law raises a brow in response, taking a long sip of his drink. Sake. Burns. Feels good. _Nice._

When it’s clear Zoro won’t elaborate on the situation, Law clears his throat and asks, “So?” There’s a rawness to the word, like he’s almost afraid to know why.

“Luffy’s not like that.”

The sentence sits heavy in the air, echoing what was spoken only a week ago, and Law finds himself leaning forward near Zoro, desperately wanting more, wanting to know _why_.

All he gets is a dark chuckle, and, “ _Nakama_ , huh?”

Then Zoro is gone, disappearing into the crowd, Law left blinking slowly and stupidly, mind a haze of questions.

He shakes it off, straightening, taking another drink as his eyes scan the party. Bepo sits around the large campfire, full bowl of food resting on the log behind him. Once his navigator catches sight of him, his face breaks into a toothy grin, waving Law enthusiastically over. The Minks he sits with make room for Law, and he takes place beside Bepo, bowl of soup immediately dumped in his lap.

“I saved this for you, captain!”

Law smirks. “Thank you, Bepo.”

They let him eat in silence for a bit, the quiet between them filled with Luffy’s awful singing and Brook’s violin. Law watches them across the fire, soup warming his belly. Strawhat’s smile is so wide, so free, and _fuck_ , Law can’t stop staring, because it is just so bright, so blinding—the brightest damn thing he’s ever seen.

It is _amazing_.

 _Luffy’s not like that_.

The soup tastes like paper, and all he can think is _what does that mean, how does that mean_ anything—

“We were just talking to Bepo about his family,” one Mink says eventually—the leopard. Pedro. Law’s gaze snaps to him, and he’s suddenly breathing again, air filling his lungs all in a rush. “I worked with his brother.”

“They did amazing things, captain!” Bepo says. “Travelling all around the New World as mink pirates!”

His eyes glitter, and Law feels a pang, something that hurts deep inside of his chest.

Pedro leans back into the log, small smile playing around his eyes. “I would like to go out to sea again. You should come with us, Bepo.”

Law freezes, and Pedro lets the silence permeate the air, thick and sharp with meaning. Everything is a low buzz, and Law’s mind races, tries to keep up with the situation.

Luffy’s singing and the world sways.

“That is,” Pedro continues eventually, “if your captain allows it.”

Law stares at him. He knows the delicacy of Minks—is intimately aware on where he is and where he stands in this situation. With careful, purposed movements, he places down the empty bowl to his side, letting his hat shadow his face, and takes a breath.

“Bepo can make his own decisions.”

His voice betrays him—thick and acidic. He can hear everything he wants to say in that simple sentence; and is _sure_ that Bepo can, too—Bepo who knows him like the back of his own paw, who knows more about Law than even Law himself.

See, it has always been this way. Law needs these people more than they could ever need himself. He is a burden to them, and they—

“Captain?”

They are _light._

Law stands. “My drink is empty, Bepo,” he says, putting a palm out to stop his navigator from rising and following. “I’ll be back.”

_Lie._

He hates himself for being this way—driven by selfish greed. Always has. Law remembers the burning in his chest at age ten, in the dark of night, wishing and wanting just to be something else, something _true_. And he remembers hating himself then, too, wanting nothing more than for his disease to just end it, just kill him—free him from himself.

Now he’s still alive—and what a bitter _taste_ that is.

Law leaves. Follows the line of the jungle tangling across the path of the small town. Follows it until the sounds of the party behind him are nothing but a low drone, and annoying buzz in the back of his mind.

Law stops, pouring the rest of his sake into the roots of an oak tree, wondering—

Well. Not a lot. He thumbs the new braid around _Kikoku_ , eyes on the star filled sky, trying to find something familiar. God’s Hand was the constellation that guided them out of the North Blue: Bepo told him that. It was something Law didn’t really know upon leaving—when Cora took him, he tried to teach Law a little about the importance of stars and navigation. But it was the one thing that would never retain, and every night, he could only remember God’s Hand: fingers that sprawled in the heavens, pointing it out to Cora as soon as the sun set, their dingy infinitely drawn towards it. Like it was something. Like he knew something.

He sighs. Shrugs _Kikoku_ closer. Arm hurts. Nostalgia does not fill in the gaps; holds no answers. Not now. Not ever.

 _Bitter_.

“Captain!”

Law turns, eyes widening slightly when he sees Bepo’s outline approaching, shadowed by the roaring fire behind. He’s saying sorry, and he almost sounds out of breath, like he’s run a mile when it’s only been twenty metres, if that.

“Bepo.”

“Captain! I’m sorry!”

Closer now. Law can see the tears swimming in his eyes; only has a moment to register them before Bepo jumps on him, wrapping him in a near-suffocating hug. He’s muttering all manner of apologies, and Law stumbles back slightly beneath the weight of him, sighing loudly as his heels dig in the dirt.

“Get off.”

He does. He’s sobbing, snot dribbling out of his nose, and Law smirks a little at it, rolling his eyes.

“ _Bepo_. I’m not upset.”

“But—but—but you left, captain! I would—I won’t do it, not if you don’t want—”

“Bepo.” The sharpness to Law’s voice catches him, and Bepo stops, sniffling quietly, looking directly at Law as if waiting for an order. “What do you want?”

“I—”

“I ask as a friend, Bepo. Not a captain.”

Law lets the silence stay for a moment, hoping it can communicate what he is too cowardly to say: _this was your goal, I understand, I left_ you _, I’m sorry, it’s only fair, it’s only fair, it’s only—_

“I want to travel with you, captain.”

Then—

 _Fuck_.

Bepo bows. He bows low, right down, does not look up at Law at all, nose nearly touching the earth. Behind, Law can see the party clearly: the chaos, his crew dancing around the fire, the insanity that is the Strawhats, encouraging any and all bad behaviours.

“What are you doing?” Law hisses, voice choked and caught in his throat. His eyes sting. “What—”

“Take me with you, captain! Let’s travel the world together. Let’s go—let’s—”

Law blinks. Then stumbles forward, almost into Bepo, as something hard thumps on his back without any warning. An arm snakes around his neck, and Bepo straightens, eyes widening, grin spreading across his face. Wetness lines his cheeks.

“You’re such a crybaby!” Shachi laughs, arm tightening around Law. He’s significantly shorter, and Law has to bend to his height—something he does with an unamused scowl. “You know, if you show captain too much affection, I heard he turns to dust.”

“He actually catches on fire,” Penguin mutters around a smoke, sliding up next to the mink with a dark grin.

“You don’t want that Bepo—”

“—who would beat us a poker—”

“—or eat all the riceballs—”

“—drink all the ale behind our backs—”

Bepo’s mouth falls open. “Captain! I’m sorry! Don’t catch on fire!”

Law wrenches himself out of Shachi’s grip, his crewmate falling away with an inane cackle. “Bastards.”

“Are you on fire?!”

“No, I’m—” Law exhales between his teeth, trying to mask his face into one of frustration. But the smile threatens, a strange warmth spreading through his body, and he snorts. “ _No._ ”

“Anyway,” Penguin says. He turns, and starts an idle walk back towards the party, hands in pockets, the trio falling into place at his side. “There’s this island I want to go to once the Yonko’s down. I heard—” his voice drops to a stage whisper, Bepo and Shachi leaning in close dramatically— “it’s like Amazon Lily.”

Shachi hi-fives Penguin comically, and Bepo looks at Law, eyes sparkling through the night. “Can we go, captain? Please? Maybe there will be lady bears.”

“There won’t be any lady bears!” Shachi snaps.

“We’ll go,” Law says, firm, before they can start _that_  old argument again. “Let’s—” he pauses, eyes hard on the party they walk back to, breathing in deep, _Kikoku_ in hand, Shachi’s arm bumping into his own. “Let’s do it.”

All three of his crew members share grins, their excitement palpable—but before anything else can be said, a _hand_ comes flying towards them.

“What—”

It takes Law a full moment to register what is happening, and when he does, it’s too late. Much too late. The limb takes a handful of his shirt, grips tight, and then he is _flying_ through the air, landing heavily without any warning into the body said hand belongs to. _Kikoku_ clatters out of his hold.

It doesn’t hurt but.

 _Fuck_.

“Oi! Mugiwara- _ya_!”

Luffy is just laughing and laughing beneath him, and Law shakes his nerves, jumping up and scowling. He dusts off his pants with two hands, striding over and plucking his nodachi out of the grass.

Luffy follows him, still laughing.

“I _told_ you to wait, Luffy!” Usopp is a metre away from them, crouching on the ground with Chopper at his side. They’re tapping some bottles, and measuring powder in a glass beaker. “Sorry, Torao- _kun_.”

“I wanted you to see this, Traffy.” Luffy bumps shoulders with Law, grinning up at him. “It’s going to be great!”

“We also need your help to get down that small valley,” Usopp adds, jerking his thumb behind him. “Otherwise it won’t have the same effect—hold that, Chopper. Great.”

Curiosity gets the better of Law. He idles over, Luffy glued to his side, peering down at the concoction Usopp is working on.

“Fireworks?” he asks, after a minute of silence.

“Yep!” Usopp says, grinning. “And I think they’re ready! Reckon you can get us down there?”

“Only if you’re not too tired!” Chopper jumps in, worriedly. “I know that you were drained after—”

“It’s fine,” Law drawls. Luffy fist bumps the air. “Let’s go to the edge.”

Usopp and Chopper gather their things, following Law to the viewing peak of the valley. It’s small, this dipping and arching hill that sprawls across Zou. From here, they can see the curve of the horizon, the tail of the elephant flicking back and forward on it’s idle path. There’s no breeze, and the sounds of the party are non-existent here, feeling further away than the endless stars that stretch above them.

“Alright.” Law opens Room. “Ready?”

Usopp only gets one nod in before Law switches him and Chopper with a large boulder below. He peers over the edge, the two visible in the clear night, waving from below. They’re too far to hear clearly, but Law can see them get started on their show immediately, setting up each firework with mathematical precision.

“This is gonna be great!” Luffy says. Law turns to him. He’s looking out over the ocean, smile wide, eyes sparkling. “I’m excited!”

“For fireworks?” Law drawls.

Luffy casts him a quick look. “No.” He slams his fist into his open palm. “Kicking Kaido’s ass. And fighting with you again. And—”

He pauses. Law waits for more, but it does not come. Brook’s still playing the violin, and he can hear its distant melody, over the rush of far-off ocean waves. He takes a breath. Let’s it out slowly.

“The ocean is nice,” Luffy says.

And— _gosh._ He’s quiet. So peaceful and serene, suddenly, like Luffy’s drunk too much and is starting to tire. His eyes shine, but they see faraway, not quite with Law—at least, not until he turns to him, moving close, all in Law’s space, smelling of salt and smoke. And he is right there, definitely very much _there_ , and Law can’t—can’t even— _fuck._

“It—” Speak. “It is.”

Luffy smiles.

“Mugiwara- _ya_ —”

“Okay!”

A shout from below. Law blinks and breaks away, almost jerking at the sudden realisation that he was leaning _forward_ , nearly _touching_ Strawhat. He rubs a hand down his face, pulling the brim of his hat over his eyes, and Luffy scoots close to the edge, lighting up.

The first firework is small. The second, also. The third is yellow, and explodes like sun in the sky, and Law can _feel_ the party behind them pause, shouts of joy and excitement filling the space. The air is pregnant with purpose.

Law stares at the sky, blinking into the light—then, something warm presses into his palm. He looks down, breath caught. Strawhat holds his hand, leaning into Law’s side, smiling wide at the endless sky above.

“It looks like your ship, Traffy!”

Law’s heart flips. “I guess.”

Luffy laughs. “Your crew are great, too. Crazy hair girl gave me this.”

He pulls out a small origami swan from his pocket, letting it sit delicately in the circle of his scarred palm. Another firework lights up the sky, this time blue, and Law can see all the little details on the paper animal—lines and drawings, disappearing into the folds.  

“She’s good at that,” he says, remembering all the origami Ikkaku used to hide around the submarine whenever he put her on night-watch. “What’s on it?”

Luffy’s still got his hand. Calloused though soft. Somehow. He looks up, smile oddly small and embarrassed. There’s a warmth to his cheeks, and his lips are a little parted, teeth white. And Law is falling, feels so _fucking_ close to him, Strawhat right there, this man of light, utter trust in his own hand.

“It’s Usopp’s drawing of you,” Luffy says.

Law’s throat is very dry. He swallows twice.

“I—”

—And leans forward, brushing his lips along Luffy’s. Feeling the breath catch in Strawhat’s throat, his hand squeezing Law’s tightly, the slight parting of his lips. And before he can even _question_ what he’s doing, Law presses further into him, lips taking Luffy’s between his own, hoping it can say—hoping it says—

Luffy tastes salty and sweet, and Law’s heart is thrumming like a humming bird beneath his ribcage, almost painfully fast.

It is only after too long, when another firework explodes in the sky, that Law realises Luffy hasn’t moved, _at all_.

_At all._

_You fool._

Law breaks away immediately, stumbling backwards, cheeks and chest burning with embarrassment as he tries to find his footing. He snatches his hand out of Strawhat’s, now all clammy, gripping _Kikoku_ painfully tight in his other palm. He tries to take a breath, to breathe—fuck, _breathe_ —

“I am—Mugi—” Breathe, breathe, breathe. “ _Sorry._ I thought—I don’t—”

Law takes the brim of his hat, pulling it down to shadow his face, murmuring something even he cannot understand at this point. Another firework explodes, blissfully drowning out his idiocy— _fool, fool, fool_.

Luffy is unbelievably still before him. Frozen. Expressionless.

“If you—”

_Ah._

Law realises, quite suddenly, intensely, that he has to leave. Now. Away. Far away from here and Strawhat. Pulling his hat down even further, he manages one more time, something akin to _sorry_ and _I thought_ leaving his mouth absently.

But then:

“Again, Traffy.”

The words are soft yet demanding, spoken with an air of intensity that could only come from Luffy. His hair falls into his eyes, darkening his face, but the gentle curve of his smile spreads, warming the rest of his demeanour.

Law stares. Blinks. “What?”

His brain isn’t working, isn’t keeping up with the present, though Luffy just repeats, “Again,” this time lifting his head, revealing his shining eyes, grinning at Law through the night.

 _“Don’t be scared._ ”

Law hears his voice, though Strawhat’s lips don’t move—and he just thinks _okay_.

_Okay._

The violin starts up behind them, the shouts and singing of their crews as the jingle drifts through the night, laughter rolling with the crashing waves of the distant ocean.

Law steps forward, free hand rising to Luffy’s face. He rubs his thumb over the scar under Strawhat’s eye. Impossible imperfections. Runs it across his lips. Slightly cracked, but soft, and Luffy doesn’t move, so Law thinks it’s okay then, it’s okay—

—it’s _okay_ —

It’s been a long time since Law has had a friend and lover. But Luffy knows him—knows him well—and still, he stands here before Law, utterly trusting, waiting, paused, smiling, trusting—and _how_.

 _How_.

“I’m going to kiss you, Mugiwara- _ya_.”

And he does. Slowly. Luffy tastes like salt and smoke, is still, is warm. Law’s hand traces his jaw, skin deceptively fragile and malleable beneath his touch; opens his lips, tastes him, _feels_ him—so free—so _Luffy_. He is grinning as Law kisses him, and the surgeon’s stomach flips lazily at the feel of his smile, the anticipation building between them; the sweet, tangible tension.

Luffy hums when they part for a breath, the sound feathering across Law’s lips. “Torao. You feel nice.”

Law drags in a breath. Smirks.

Strawhat grins back. “Do it again!”

In that moment, there is _nothing_. Not doubts, no worries, no burdens; not even himself.

Just Luffy.

And Law feels—Law is—he can—

Another firework explodes in the clear night sky; a brilliant, blinding blue, lighting across the night, disappearing into the abyss.

And finally, Law can _breathe_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you want to know more about law and monet’s relationship i have this [oneshot i did a while ago ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13887021). AND thank you so much for the support guys, i am overwhelmed!


	7. interlude: dreamscape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a quick note; huge, massive shout out to my dear friend and beta trell, for editing, and dealing with me stressing constantly about my own writing (and, subsequently, inspiring me and always making me feel better about everything). and julie (shishiswordsman), too, who has helped me immeasurably these past months.
> 
> anyway, i hope you guys enjoy and thank you so so much for your support

**interlude: dreamscape**

**(the _Polar Tang_ )**

**"T** **entacles on the brain keep me from falling asleep,**

**I'm rooted to the spot . . .**

 

**I don't want to set sail for the middle of nowhere tonight."**

**— _Dirty Creature_ , Split Endz**

 

* * *

 

 

Law opens his eyes.

The ocean so clear, he can see for miles. Beds of coral curve over the sand below, bright and vivid, some colours he could not even name. The water is so warm, it’s hard to know where it ends and he begins, each sway of the tide as natural as breathing.

“Oi, Torao!”

Luffy treads water before him, schools of tropical fish swirling around them, darting in and out, to and fro. The colours are blinding—reds, yellows, orange and blues—rays of sunlight lighting up their scales.

He says Law’s name again.

Without thinking, he’s swimming towards Luffy—a movement so effortless, he doesn’t question it at all. He’s so _close,_ reaching out for Strawhat with one hand—and Luffy reciprocates the movement, smile wide, fingertips brushing against his own.

Law thinks he says _Torao_ , again. Thinks he hears the laughter in his voice.

That’s when it starts. A low hum, at first. Maybe just the rush of waves above them, or the sound of a distant steamship. But all too soon it picks up in volume, fills the ocean, rolls in from all around him. A deafening thrum that makes his head pound, the sound throbbing inside his skull.

Desperate to keep it out, Law claps his hands over his ears. His head aching, his ears ring, his chest tightens. Pressure bears down on him, like the sea is collapsing, falling on top of them. He looks to Luffy, tries to speak, to warn him to leave, but the sun disappears and Luffy—

Luffy is gone, and Cora is there.

“I—”

Law can’t think, can’t move, can’t even _scream._

“Law.”

A flash of movement streaks behind him. So fast Law can barely make out the shadow in the dark. But before he can cry a warning, a rope—no, _tentacle,_ monstrous and grey, pulsing  
with each wave _—_ wraps around Cora’s waist.

Law jerks forward, tries to move his arms, to swim against the pressure. But it’s like moving through molasses, the force of the world pushing back against him. And for all his strength, he cannot move an inch.

“Law.”

“ _No_.” His voice falters, distant, even to his own ears.

The ocean surges in response, pushing him aside as though he weighs nothing.

Cora reaches for him, and then—

He’s gone, a flare of white swallowed by darkness. Nothing.

 

 *

 

And Law blinks up at the ceiling of his cabin, chest heaving, gasping for air.

 

*

 

Leagues ebb and flow between their ships.

“Where are you, Traffy?”

Night, six days from Wano. Here, there are no stars, the sky black as pitch.

Law starts.

It’s such a simple question. He can see the _den-den_ grinning in the darkness, mirroring Luffy’s smile, hat resting on its back. A distant patter of rain echoes through the receiver. Luffy’s talking about something, saying something about Sanji, something about the rain, Big Mom’s island of candy. He’s laughing.

Without thinking, Law reaches across the expanse of his desk, brushing his fingers over the corner of the snail’s smile. He can feel Luffy’s soul through it, taste the laughter; feels it in the way his heart thuds, out-of-time, too fast, uncontrolled.

Leagues ebb and flow between their ships, and the utter darkness here is all-consuming, the loneliness washing over him in waves. The snail is soft under his fingertips, never close enough. Never enough.

He always wants too much.

“Things are okay, aren’t they, Torao?”

And he answers, “Yeah.” Tries to breathe. “Things are okay.”

 

*

 

Robin pours the coffee. Another night, moonless and cold, the inky black ocean stretching out beyond the small port window of the _Tang_ ’s galley. Waiting for him.

There’s nothing but silence between them, broken only by the clink of cutlery, the muted beep of machinery—the whistle of cold winter air that sneaks through the hall. It reminds him of more distant memories. Ones he can’t quite remember. Ones that sit heavy, weighted, on his shoulders.

He stares out the dirty port window, past the ocean that stretches beyond, to the unfamiliar horizon. How little he still knows, even now.

“No milk?”

Law does not look away from the window, eyes locked on the curve of metal arched with the submarine’s blue LED lights. “No,” he says, flat. Then, “Thank you,” to somehow make it more human, like it might bring him back to the present.

He does not look at her, even as she glides into view, placing the steaming mug at his side.

“We dock tomorrow,” she says, her voice light. In his periphery, he sees her take a seat at the far end of the galley table—as far from himself as possible—mug cupped between her hands. “We haven’t had a chance to tell you.”

That was a kind way of saying, _you haven’t left your room in days._ A kind way of saying, _how can you be a captain, how are you so useless, you haven’t even showered, you can’t even_ die—

His voice is thick, “I’m aware.” Bepo left a note, helpfully tacked to his cabin door. “What do you know about it?” He turns to her, then.

She takes a thoughtful sip of her drink before answering:

“A winter island, mountainous. Our samurai guests say that it has been abandoned for decades.” A soft smile touches the corners of her lips. “Sound familiar, Torao- _kun_?”

He ignores her. “How long until Wano?”

“Three days’ travel from here.”

Close. Close enough to be noticed. And an island on Kaido’s border is surely being watched by the Yonko’s men. Law has no doubt the man himself is waiting for him and Luffy, has been ever since Doflamingo’s fall at Dressrosa.

He tightens his grip on the handle of his mug, stomach churning. Water laps at the hull.

Robin offers nothing more, sliding her own mug carefully to the side and pulling a small notebook from her pocket. She takes a pen and writes, her movements foreign to any language Law knows. Her pen curves and strikes, moves in sharp lines and soft circles, and he can’t see what’s being written, not from this far, but he can’t stop watching, staring at the way her hand moves across paper.

They sit in silence for a long time, just like that, Law watching her write, before she says, “They say that insomnia is the curse of those who think too much.”

Law scoffs, loudly. “ _They_.”

“The mysterious ‘they’.” Robin’s eyes are on him now, pen poised in mid-air. He holds her gaze, but she is much more discerning than he, staring straight through him, like she’s studying his soul. “Perhaps it would be easier if I just say, I understand, Torao- _kun_.”

He hesitates only for the slightest moment. “Why else would you be awake at three in the morning?”

“ _Fufufu_ , why else indeed?” she replies. Her smile is faint. “There are many reasons for one to be awake at this hour. I, for one, find it the most comforting time to write.”

He looks back to her page, the foreign symbols, the curving script, his mug still sitting warm against his hand. And she adds, voice oddly distant, “The ocean is beautifully quiet at this time of night.”

_The ocean._

Robin falls silent, finishes her coffee and writes, but Law is still for some time, drink turning cold in his hand. Trying to ignore the rushing sounds of the sea as it swirls and churns beneath them, trying to remain in the present: the scratch of Robin’s pen, the hum of the _Tang_ ’s soul.

Just trying to be.

 

*

 

A thick, damp darkness clings to the room as Law tries to wake.

There’s something on him. Something that sits heavy and weighted on his bare chest, pinning him into the mattress beneath. Salt crusts the air.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He doesn’t remember this room, this bed, the darkness. Doesn’t remember—

Law gasps. Whatever is on him sinks, forcing the breath painfully from his lungs. Everything is strangely tight, compressed, and he can almost feel the room expanding and contracting around him, as if it’s breathing, as if it’s _alive._

Like a flare, Law wakes, panicked, heart thudding with fear. He goes to move the thing away, goes to move at _all_ , but his body is dead-weight and unresponsive. Trapped. He stares at the ceiling, watches as it just breathes in and out, in and out, walls closing in, walls withdrawing. The candle on his bedside flickers, casting shadows across the room—grotesque amorphous shapes, massive soulless beings.

His chest tightens.

With a last-ditch effort, Law moves. He manages a pathetic roll off his bed, landing on the metal floor with an undignified _oof._ And for all of two seconds, he thinks it works, crawling towards the door—until he feels it.

The unmistakable ebb and flow of the tide. The icy waters of the deep, blackness rushing forth and pooling around his hands, his knees, rising rapidly. And his chest tightens again, as if he’s being squeezed, his head suddenly exploding in pain.

He’s dead, surely. The blackness is cold, and he is drowning in the fathomless deep, the deadened taste of seafoam on his tongue

This is not what he wanted. This is not how he imagined death would be. His candle fizzes out behind and he is plunged into the black, head throbbing. And it’s cold. So cold his body aches. He feels the water sway and rise, now to his chest, can no longer move—just shiver convulsively, shakes so violent they rock his whole frame, teeth chattering and grinding.

“ _Law._ ”

The voice is in his ear, right _there_ , and he feels the ocean beneath him pull forcefully, desperate to drag him down. Deeper, deeper, into the nothing.

He can’t breathe. The pressure rises. Panicked, Law tries to stand, scratching and digging at the nearest thing he can grab. His nails gouge at wood—his dresser—and he digs them in, feeling them split and bend as they scratch at the hardwood. Pain ripples through him, and he focuses on it. Feels blood smear warm across his fingertips, the world suddenly falling into place around him—the ticking of a clock on his bedside, the hum of machinery, distant laughter.

Hot, wet sheets tangle around his legs, and Law’s still choking, nails ripping and clawing to stand, to _move,_ to _breathe_ —

He wakes.

It’s midday.

 _Midday_.

Sunlight pours in through the open window of his cabin.

A dry, choked sob escapes him, breath coming back all in a rush. He can still feel it—the tightness of his chest, the inability to inhale, the pulsing cabin walls. He can still taste the salt on his tongue, the icy cold ocean swallowing him, pulling him deep, _down_ , into nothing at all—

He’s shaking now, and not from the cold. The world falls into a bright, orange quiet, humidity thick and sticky in the afternoon air. Blood drips from his hands, splinters buried deep under his fingernails from scratching the headboard of his bed.

Breath rattling harsh in his lungs, Law curls into himself. As if that can contain the humiliation, the fear, the oblivion pressing down on him. Slowly, he untangles his feet from the sweat-soaked sheets, heart hammering painfully fast in his chest, his mouth dry.

He’s awake.

He’s alive.

_Alive._

 

*

 

Hours crawl by. The ship sways with each wave, steady and sure atop the abyss that presses against her hull.

Law can’t move.

The blank walls of his cabin are foreign. He can’t decide whether it’s fear of the deep that holds him still, or something more wicked.

Something of himself.

His gaze slides over the pieces of his life scattered around the cabin.. Medical books that collect dust, anatomy drawings tacked to the wall. A map of the North Blue, hand-drawn by Bepo. Half-eaten food, rotting on his desk, and a mug full of cold, bitter coffee.

He hates himself, lying there. Fills the room wall-to-wall with his self-loathing, viscous and vile and laden with the same regret that’s taken too much of his life.

Years of wandering the seas, desperately searching for closure, only to be left with no more than what he started with: himself, worthless, and the desire of the worthless to die. And how many times he could have done just that, on Dressrosa—it’s nearly funny, ironic, in the way of a sick twisted joke.

A sharp knock at the door stirs him. Four, in quick succession—and he knows who it is just by the sound, by the anxious shuffling on the other side. Hesitance.

“Captain?”

Law stares at the metal barrier, setting sun casting long steaks over the steel surface. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, but Ikkaku knocks again, this time a little more frantic, louder, and calls his name.

There’s fear there.

“Stop.” His voice is raw, quiet, but the knocking ceases immediately, and he hears a dull _thud_ —the sound of her leaning against the door. “One moment.”

He dresses slowly, his heart a tight-coiled ribbon, grabs _Kikoku_ from the side of the bed. She settles into his shoulder like an old friend, and he gives a heavy sigh, straightens his shoulders, takes another breath. Two.

The door opens, creaking protest.

Ikkaku sucks in a breath between her teeth. “ _Captain_ ,” she says. Her eyes are wide, hands nervously twisting together. “There’s someone who wants to see you.”

 _Someone_.

The word thickens the air around them.

“I thought the island was abandoned.”

“It is—or.” She’s avoiding eye contact now, breath crystallising in the air before her as she speaks. “The samurai and Strawhats searched after we docked. They said there was nothing. Not even any wildlife. But he came this morning, from the tundra.”

Law’s stomach drops. It’s weeks, maybe even _months_ , until Strawhat’s due to return to Wano. Until then, the plan was for Law’s party to stay low, to keep to themselves.

To be discovered and known already, in the heart of Kaido’s territory—the thought leaves the taste of too-ripe fruit on the tip of his tongue.

“Who?” he asks, his mouth dry.

She does not answer—merely tilts her head down the hall. They walk the space in silence, Law’s hand wrapped tight around _Kikoku_ , the other opening and closing at his side, ready to spread Room at the slightest warning.

At first, Law notices nothing amiss. His crew gather around the deck, all turning to stare at the grating sound of metal-on-metal as Ikkaku pushes open the door. The four Strawhats and the samurai stand just to the side, their attention to the distance, as if waiting for an ambush.

And in the centre of it all stands one of the Worst Generation, Massacre Soldier Killer, covered in blood and dirt, fingers blue, head bowed. A ghost of the man Law remembers from Sabaody.

He could cut the silence in half.

“What the hell,” Law says.

“Captain.” Jean Bart. He steps forward, the rest of the crew watching nervously. “He won’t talk, Captain. We can’t find anyone else near, and there’s been no sign of an ambush. He says he’ll only talk to—”

“Trafalgar.”

The word is almost indecipherable, a harsh rasp that slices the air.

Law eyes Killer warily, not moving from the doorway. The space yawns between them. He waits, but Killer doesn’t move, barely seems alive at all.

“I never imagined Eustass- _ya_ would work for Kaido,” Law says, when the silence has stretched out too long. He steps forward, _click, click,_ staring at the rise and fall of Killer’s chest. Too laboured. Too harsh. “Or are you here for something else?”

Killer swallows. “You’re a doctor.” He lifts his head, the mask hiding his face, but Law can feel his eyes on him, madman-intense. “Please. Trafalgar, I will give you anything. Money. Coins. We have—”

“What would your captain say,” Law breathes, voice low, “if he could see his first mate begging like this?”

There is a minute movement behind Killer.

Zoro is watching the other pirate closely, expression indecipherable. His hand rests on his white sword, so artless a gesture that Law is sure it’s as natural to him as breathing.

“I don’t care.” Killer’s voice is raw, burning. Again: “I don’t _care_.”

Then, without any warning, he falls. Drops to his knees at Law’s feet—Law starts back, and half the crew reaches for a weapon—but he only bows his head to the deck until his forehead rests against wood.

And pleads, his voice shaking, all dignity gone:

“My captain, Trafalgar. Please save him. _Please_.”


	8. interlude: Eustass Kid

* * *

**interlude: Eustass Kid**

**(the _Polar Tang_ )**

**_"my eyes blew out I could finally see,_ **

**_warm magical tropical oceans,"_ **

**_—_ _Tropical Oceans_ , D. D. Dumbo**

 

* * *

 

Heavy clouds blanket the pre-dawn sky above. The first dustings of snowfall sweep across the island on a northern wind, and Law pulls his hood up in response. Old snow crunches underfoot.

Killer leads them across the island, winding through the white, barren land of towering mountains and cavernous valleys. Half of Law’s crew follow, Penguin, Uni, and Jean Bart among them, all supporting backpacks of food, water, and medical supplies for the rival crew. The guesting Strawhats trail some paces behind the crowd—save for Robin, who walks by Law’s side, listening to Killer’s account of their time on Wano.

He tells them of Kaido landing on their base, Apoo’s betrayal—of Eustass Kid’s one, last defiant act before the giant Yonko, fearless and unwavering.

Law has heard tales of bravery before. He’s heard them many times, recounted with theatrics and drama, romance and desire. But none spoken like this: weighed with regret and emptiness, a life not lived. A tale that leaves the acid taste of fear on the tip of his own tongue.

“They threw him in chains,” Killer says. “Burned our ship, left half our crew dead. I gave myself up to them after that. Immediately.” His hands fist at his side. “ _Dammit._ ”

Law is silent, gripping _Kikoku_ tightly, misting breath rising before his face in plumes. Beside him, Robin tightens her scarf, the ferocious cold pinking her cheeks and nose.

Killer continues, hands still restless by his side, “They took me gladly. The Yonko’s men—don’t read. Didn’t know . . .” He fades and sighs, shoulders hunched. Shakes his head, as if ridding himself of something—some memory, a feeling.

“You and your captain are close,” Robin finishes for him, voice muffled beneath her scarf. She tilts her head slightly. “They thought you surrendered out of fear.”

“Fools,” Killer spits. He straightens a little then, cracks his knuckles; right hand, left. “I got in and found Kid. They have a prison there, in Kaido’s castle. Everyday the guards walked in, and they doused him—seawater. He was fine for the first week, then he—he started to forget where he was. Then me. And then . . . then he didn’t wake at all.” Killer’s voice wavers, but he plows on, rekindled fury in the words he speaks, “So, I broke him out. Ran like a coward. I knew the crew would be here. I thought . . . well, y’know. Even if he dies, at least he’ll die with us.”

“That’s not cowardice,” Law says sharply. He feels Killer and Robin look at him, but keeps his eyes on the twisting path. “One man against a Yonko’s army is stupidity.”

No one speaks. Then:

“Kid wouldn’t—Kid _will_ not agree.” Killer’s voice is horrible, clogged. “He never feared death.”

Law thinks about the cold, abyssal ocean; about Eustass Kid drowning in saltwater with seastone cuffs burning into his skin. The sea roars in his ears. Frantic waves crash against the shoreline below.

“Kid,” Law grinds out, “is a _fool_.”

He grips _Kikoku_ tighter, fists his free hand deep in his coat pocket and forces out a trembling breath.

The rest of the walk is spent in silence. The path thins as it descends towards the bay, and Killer guides them down. Ahead, Law can see the gray expanse of the ocean, pressed motionless against the horizon. An island rises where the sea and sky meet— _Wano_ , nothing more than a speck in the distance, deceptively calm. And closer—a brigantine. Burned. A gaping, shipwrecked ruin, hauntingly lonely in the silent bay.

Behind them, Franky whistles, long and low.

As they reach level ground, Killer takes them towards a cave mouth that curves the shore. Water laps with the tide, spilling up against the snow and leaving a dark, rocky shoreline in its wake. The wind here slices through their clothes, and Law can feel the harsh sting of salt on his bare face.

He takes another breath. He is still shaken, his mind numb. The lifeless husk of the brigantine looms beside them, throwing the company in its chilling shadow. Something feels very wrong. A premonition of change, or something worse.

“We’re almost there,” Killer says, picking up his pace, voice tinged with desperation. Law hurries after him, Robin at his shoulder. “Ahead, in the cave.”

A lone figure stands sentry at the entrance, leaning against the jagged rock. As they near it resolves into a severe-faced woman, her ragged clothes bloodstained. The sleeves of her tunic have been torn off, and her broad shoulders are covered in tattoos and scars, the latter marring the former. One cut looks fresh, blooded and off-color in the pale light.

“Killer.” Her eyes are as sharp as daggers, following them with wary apprehension as they approach. “So, it was Trafalgar’s ship.”

“He agreed to help Kid, Aoife,” Killer says. He pauses, and Law stops just behind, Robin still at his side. “Like I said.”

“He agreed? Just of his own free will?” Aoife barks a laugh, harsh as the icy wind. “You’ve always been too trusting, Killer.”

Killer doesn’t answer. Doesn’t falter, either, holding her gaze, steady.

“We’ve been burned by an alliance before— _your_ alliance.” More deliberately, she adds, voice low, “Captain said no to that one, too, remember?”

“This is not an alliance,” Law says, speaking before he realises. Her eyes flick to him, mouth open, ready to retort, but he continues, his tone scathing, “He will die whether I see him or not. I _can_ leave.”

There is a long, suffering silence, broken only by the choppy tide and creaking ship, blowing in the severe wind. Then:

“Stand down, Aoife.” Killer’s voice is incredibly low, almost inaudible. “That’s an order.”

Aoife, to Law’s surprise, does not argue: steps aside from the cave entry in silent concession and walks slowly towards the burned ship, eyes on the vessel. Waves foam to white as they collide with the hull, frozen mist spraying the air.

“Aoife,” Killer says, “is our shipwright. She hasn’t been the same since—” A lame gesture of his hand indicates the ship, as though to let it say what he cannot.

“It can’t be fixed?” Zoro asks.

“The ship?” Killer shrugs. “Maybe. There’s a forest behind the sea cliffs—but we’re . . .” Law sees his hands fist. “We’re _weak_. All the wood we gathered went towards shelter and warmth. We’ve already lost one man to exposure. We can’t afford—”

Killer stops, watching as Franky breaks away from the group, walking towards the ship with long, purposeful strides. Law finds Uni’s eyes, jerking his head sharply. His crew know him well enough to take his meaning—Uni passes his medical supplies to Penguin, and follows Strawhat’s shipwright to the brigantine. He’s already rubbing his hands together at the prospect of work.

Aoife starts as they approach. “What—”

“ _Ow!_ Southern Ghost Gum!” Franky slaps the prow of the ship, grinning like a maniac. His eyes follow the towering vessel upward, taking in every grain and knot and crack in the ashen wood. “Epoxy-coated, too, nice! Haven’t seen something like this for years.”

Something happens then: Aoife’s shoulders fall, the hostility melting from her stance. For an instant, she is open like a book—hurt, tired, defeated. And something else, too: _determined._

She smiles at Franky. Says, “Yeah, she’s a beauty. Fifty years old. Got her at an auction in the Southern Bite, west of Weekes. Kid almost killed a man for her—”

A strong gust sweeps through the bay, drowning out the rest of Aoife’s sentence. Killer turns around at that, nodding once to Law and walking ahead. Law follows with Robin and the rest of their group in his wake. The cliff face swallows them, temperature plummeting as they go deeper, and he hears Robin take a sharp breath, hands buried deep in her pockets.

That’s when he feels it.

Sudden, intense, strong enough to tear a moan out of his lungs. Penguin shoots him a worried glance, but Law manages to keep walking, eyes fixed on Killer’s back. But once they enter the cave—ten pairs of eyes turning to greet them—Law can’t—

He stumbles.

The taste of salt. The smell of seafoam—rotted and sour, crusting the tips of his fingers. He struggles for breath, only vaguely aware of Penguin’s hand coming up to grip his arm, holding him upright. A thin layer of moisture rests on his bare skin, and around them there is just deathly silence—the black abyss, closing in, crushing, suffocating.

Law swallows, his mouth dry. His voice comes out muffled, distant even to his own ears: “Do you feel it.”

He expects no answer, but then:

“Seastone.” He looks up to find Robin’s gaze. She is deathly pale, eyes misted, lips blue. “It feels like seastone.”

“ _No._ ” Killer. He steps in front of Law, and he looks—panicked. Hands fidgeting, head swiveling between Law and the back of the cave, to Law again. “No that can’t—we took all of it off him. _All_ of it.”

Law doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean. Why that would require such emphasis. But he’s heard stories of Kaido’s prison; of seastone walls and chains, of bullets and arrowheads forged out of it. And he imagines, again, the endless abyss, day after day, drowning in salt water.

His stomach twists into knots. He steadies himself, shaking Penguin off roughly—takes a deep breath. Then two, then three. “Don’t come any further, Nico- _ya_.”

Robin says nothing.

Killer leads him further in. Kid’s crew bunk in the centre of the cave, huddled around a small, smouldering coal fire. There are filthy blankets, branches, old clothes piled around the flame; makeshift beds and cots for the sick. Some of the crew watch them pass by, silent. Others are asleep, covered in haphazard bandages and salves.

Law only meets Penguin’s eyes for a heartbeat. It is enough—Penguin reads it in his look. The crew of the _Tang_ set immediately to their work at Penguin’s barking orders, pulling out their supplies and tending to the wounded.

The air thickens as they near the back of the cave. A sick, feverish smell hangs heavy, and it takes all of Law’s energy to just keep walking. The ground beneath him seems to swell and pulse. He grips his nodachi until his knuckles ache, desperate for an anchor.

They stop. The silence is deafening.

Law takes a shaking breath, and looks down at the form of Eustass Kid.

He lies on a low cot, pressed against the stone wall. Someone has taken the time to shave his face, keep him clean. But there is a light sheen of sweet that glistens in the firelight—and he is gaunt, near unrecognisable as the man Law fought alongside on Sabaody all those years ago. Pallid and waxy-yellow, all wrong, and stinking of seafoam, the sulfuric miasma of seaweed thick in the air.

Law steps back, swallowing against the bile rising in his throat. “Bring him to my ship. Immediately.”

“No—” Killer stops himself suddenly. His hands are shaking.

Law looks to him. His heart thuds loudly in his chest, and somewhere beyond the confines of the cave the ocean swells, crashing as one against the shore. Pity unfurls in Law’s chest, mocking and cruel.

 _Speak_.

He grinds his teeth.

 _Coward_.

“Get your crew to say goodbye, Killer- _ya_.” He turns away from Kid—turns to the fire, flickering feebly in the greedy dark of the cave. “There isn’t much time.”

*

It is well past midnight, air icy cold, when someone knocks on the door of the medbay.

Law’s candles have long since pooled to wicks, throwing long, flickering shadows across the pages that cover the surface of his desk. He blinks blearily down at them, dully dissatisfied at how little he has achieved in the course of several days. No closer to anything—and behind, Kid’s constant, laboured breathing, a reminder of failure.

At least now, being near Kid does not feel like drowning. But Law still can’t use his Devil Fruit in the room. It makes him feel as useless as when he was a child, waiting for death to take him.

“Damn it,” he mutters.

The knock sounds again, and he rises slowly, rubbing his hands against his pants to warm them. He does not look at Eustass Kid as he passes, resting his hand on the latch and taking a deep breath.

“Who is it?” he asks.

“Me.”

 _Zoro_.

Law hesitates. Zoro knocks again, louder this time, impatient and entitled.

With a sigh, Law pulls the door open. The swordsman invites himself in immediately, strolling past without another word, two bottles in hand. He sinks into one of the chairs near Law’s desk, popping the lid off one of the bottles and taking a long, slow gulp.

His eye slides over the room, taking in every inch with purpose, before finally landing on Kid in the cot, utterly still. Zoro seems to pause at that.

“Shit,” he mutters.

“Uh—”

Law starts, turning sharply around to the source of the sound. Usopp stands awkwardly in the doorway, looking like he’s not quite sure _how_ to look, hands twisting and turning over one another.

“Sorry. We just wanted to see . . .” Usopp glances nervously over Law’s shoulder, into the room beyond. He pales. “Oh.”

Law steps to the side, pulling the door open further. “You might as well come in.”

“No, I just—”

“Come in.”

Usopp doesn’t argue that. He takes one purposeful step forward, nervously holding eye contact with Law as he clicks the door shut.

The Strawhats and their affections. His own crew know well enough to leave him alone, give him peace of mind, and yet—

Yet.

Law strides across the room, sinking back into his chair. Usopp claims the only other seat available. Zoro passes Law the open bottle, face blank.

“Thank you.”

Law takes a long drink, feeling the _Tang_ as she rocks gently around them. Ale—Western, if he had to guess. He tilts the brown bottle against the candlelight to look at the label.

No one says anything for a very long time. Long enough for the beer to start clouding Law’s sleep-deprived mind, his thoughts wandering.

“How’s he doing?” Usopp asks, eventually, breaking the quiet. He’s looking at Kid, voice a near-whisper, like he’s afraid the notorious pirate captain might wake at any moment.

“You’d be better off asking how he’s still alive.” Law stares at the liquid in his bottle, watching surface ripples catch the dim candlelight through the thick glass. “I cannot possibly operate on him when there is so much seastone in his system. I can’t even imagine what he—” He stops. Says instead: “He should be dead.”

Usopp tenses.

“Luffy rang earlier,” Zoro says. “He will be here within two weeks. Maybe Chopper . . .”

He doesn’t finish, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, chin in hand, bottle hanging loosely by his side. Watches Law intently, but Law stays still and blank in front of the swordsman, betraying nothing.

_Two weeks._

He looks away, towards Kid. Two weeks isn’t enough time. He’s unsure at this point how Kid will even survive the next few days. The small amounts of seastone in his system have severed all connection between him and his Devil Fruit, and the rusted metal arm has spread bacteria into his bloodstream. Law would have removed the ridiculous thing already in _Room_ , but every time he tries to activate it near Kid, it flickers feebly, exhausting him within seconds. Which means he will have to remove the prosthetic traditionally. Though _how_ —

And then there’s Killer, and the rest of his crew. After their visit to the cave, Law can see Killer’s tenuous hold on the crew is a wild card. The Kid Pirates were known for being volatile and fierce with their captain in good health—what they’ll do without him, Law doesn’t want to know. He’s seen the way they look at Eustass: it’s the way the Strawhats look at Luffy—the way Bepo still looks at him. There’s a good chance that the Kid pirates will turn at any point they suspect betrayal, burning the _Tang_ to the ground before they start on Wano.

Grief, Law knows, can drive a person insane.

Usopp’s talking. With a deep breath, Law drags himself back to the present, focuses on the rise and fall of Kid’s chest, struggles to drive all thoughts from his mind.

“—Totto Land! Can you believe it? And Sanji, too—”

Zoro scoffs. “ _Idiot_.”

“—fighting with Big Mom—”

Law blinks.

_What—_

Movement.

Law blinks again, Zoro and Usopp’s voices fading into a dull distant buzz. Movement—but it can’t have been. But as he stares, hand white-knuckled around the bottleneck, he sees it again: Eustass Kid’s right eyelid twitches, receptive to stimulus.

_Receptive._

Fear spikes through him. Usopp’s jabbering slams into him like a tidal wave.

“—Katakuri and Luffy fighting in a mirror—”

“Shut up!” Law snaps. His voice is a harsh, a sudden slap, and he sees Usopp jerk back, away from him. Zoro’s hand hovers towards his resting swords. “He’s—”

Usopp follows his gaze, eyes wide as saucers, and Zoro says, voice deathly calm, “Can he hear us?”

“I don’t think so,” Law replies, rising slowly. “Stay here.”

He pushes himself away from the desk and walks steady, predictable steps towards the cot. Kid’s face is blank and motionless, bathed in the blue and yellow light of the room. Completely still, barely breathing.

Law rubs at his eyes. Had he imagined it?

He places a hand on the mattress, matching Kid’s stillness, waiting. Receiving no response, he leans closer to Kid, breath tight in his chest as his other hand pauses over Kid’s right eye.

He hesitates.

“Oi, oi—” Usopp starts.

Law hears a chair scrape back, but with one sharp, lethal glare, Usopp freezes mid-rise. Satisfied, he returns to Kid, and, very carefully, peels back his eyelid.

It happens too quickly. Like a eel waiting to strike, Kid lashes out with his metal arm, the rusted, flaking steel closing around Law’s right wrist, crushing and cutting his skin instantly. Law buckles—manages, clumsily, to hold his free hand outward, signing for the other two to not move. He hears the _shing_ of a katana drawn, the pull of rubber, metal grinding, tightening, tightening, blinding pain—

And then. Nothing.

Eustass Kid blinks up at him, eyes red, breath dragging through his rattling lungs in desperate gasps. “Kaido?”

Law concentrates on him, trying to remove himself from the shooting pain of his right arm. Teeth grit, he replies, slowly, “No. I am not Kaido.”

Kid blinks again. Moves his gaze across every inch of Law’s face, as if trying to make sense of what he sees; but Law can see that Kid can’t focus, can’t understand.

“I am not Kaido,” Law repeats, voice firmer. He can’t feel his arm. The room sways. Rotting sea, the _smell_ , the _taste_ —“Eustass- _ya_ —”

The grip on his arm eases abruptly. Metal grinding on metal, a sound that pierces his ears, and Law can finally inhale, can _breathe_ , drinking in the air, unaware he was even holding his breath, head spinning with relief.

“I’m Trafalgar Law,” he says after a moment. Kid still has his wrist, but not nearly as tight, Law’s blood pooling in the pitted, dented metal. “We’ve met, at Sabaody—”

“I know,” Kid snarls.

Before Law can react, he tightens his grip again without any warning, Law’s knees buckling from the sudden, intense pain. He gasps—sees Zoro move in his periphery, Usopp aim the slingshot—manages to hold out his free hand again to calm them, open-palm, trying to hold himself still.

Kid’s eyes _burn_ into him. There’s something there. Something in them. Only a fool would ignore the warning in that gaze.

Then:

“Killer? Where is—” Kid tries to sit, to move, to tighten his grip, but.

But.

Kid lets go, sudden, and Law stumbles back against the wall in surprise. It takes him a moment to gather himself, hand sliding blindly over the metal behind to steady his footing. Blood slicks his wrist, the cuts on his arm buzzing with pain.

Kid drags his human hand down his face. His breathing is ragged, desperate—and he curses, a surprisingly soft sound, _broken_.

Law thinks of Killer, the day they brought him here; kneeling beside this very bed, his pleas echoing empty. Law had felt he was intruding then, even on his very own ship. Now he feels it again, like he’s caught a private moment not meant for his eyes.

He turns away, biting down on his tongue as he stares out the window, the night sky patchy with stars.

It’s Usopp, out of all of them, that breaks the silence, making Law blink. “He’s alive.” Usopp hasn’t moved, slingshot still in hand, shaking violently all over. But he continues, voice astoundingly firm and sure, “Killer’s alive, and we’re gonna get Kaido. We’ll get him for your crew and Wano—our captain—”

He stops with a squeak as Kid removes his hand from his face, fixing him with a murderous glare. “He’s alive?” There’s no relief, no gratitude. “On Wano?”

The room is heavy with the absence of an answer. Usopp is frozen, all his bravery sapped as suddenly as it had come. Kid repeats, in lowest register: “Is. He. On. Wano.”

“No.”

Law steps forward, then, and Kid’s eyes snap to him, pinning him in place. And Law sees it, then: has seen it too many times in the mirror to mistake it in another.

 _Fear_.

He says, “We’re on an island nearby. Yama. Killer is here with your crew.”

“Tell him to leave,” Kid growls. There is something feral about him, visceral, terrifying. Like a rabid dog, ready to snap at any moment. “Tell him to leave and not come back. To go on and _not come back_.”

Law hesitates, and Kid’s eyes flash.

“He won’t listen to me,” Law says, barely above a rasp. He sees Killer again, kneeling by the bed, hand tracing Kid’s jawline—whispering words not meant for Law, not meant for anyone. “He will not leave you.”

“Then bring him here, Trafalgar,” Kid says. “ _Bring him_.”

*

The den-den isn’t smiling.

It’s twelve hours later. Law still hasn’t slept properly. Gold pours through the window of his room, the _Tang_ rocking and rocking and rocking.

“What’s wrong, Traffy?”

“Why do you think there’s something wrong, Mugiwara- _ya_?” Law pushes his fingers into his temples, rubbing them slowly as he tries to focus on the books open before him. Words blur, bleeding through the page. He sighs. “It’s nothing.”

There’s this sound on the other end—like Luffy’s chewing something. And farther away: waves. He must be sitting on the figurehead. Law can picture it perfectly— _him_ perfectly.

“Eustass Kid won’t die,” he says, suddenly. Tired—talking without thinking, _idiot_ , but it’s just Luffy. Continues, unfiltered, “I can save him.”

“Nyah, that’s great, Torao!”

 _Is it?_ he wants to say, but—too tired. He flattens a hand on the page before him, following the lines of his tattoos in the warming sun.

Time passes. He’s not sure how much. But the sun moves, he knows, and Luffy is silent—not _there_ , he thinks, but then:

“Hey. Traffy?”

Law rests his head on the desk, breathing deep. “What?”

“Sometimes, that’s okay, too.”

They’ve rehearsed this before. He closes his eyes, sighs, “What is?”

“To not be okay.”

He can hear Luffy breathing; even, weighted, almost. Law imagines him drowsing in the warm sun, on the smiling lions head, kicking his legs lazily in the air.

Then Luffy says, “Stay with me.”

Law doesn’t even question it, doesn’t even think, says immediately, “Of course.”

Luffy’s steady breathing tethers him to the present, to the simple warded moment. The darkness is warm when it closes in.

Law sleeps, and does not dream.

*

He’s pouring coffee when Killer enters the galley—midnight again, the lights dimmed low, the _Tang_ silent. Killer enters and stands at the counter, not looking at Law, hands splayed across the granite, face hidden beneath his battered, ruined mask. Coat long gone, his arms bare—and Law can see the hatch mark scars, the weeks-old blood still not scrubbed away, the fading blue-black bruises wrapped around his wrists.

Law’s mug steams the open air between them. “I can leave, if you would like to be alone,” he says, carefully.

“No,” Killer rasps. “No.”

Wordlessly, Law reaches across the small kitchen, fishes a mug from the cabinet over the stove. He pushes it across the counter towards Killer, along with the percolator. Killer doesn’t seem to register the action at all.

The silence shatters. “What’s wrong with him? He said . . . he said he can’t feel his Devil Fruit.”

Law stares down at his coffee, trying to find the right words. “It’s been torn from him.” Killer breathes in sharply, and Law continues, “I imagine that is what the seawater and seastone were for. Kaido's men are known for—experimentation.” He bites his lip, and does not think about Doflamingo.

Killer curses. Repeats, disbelieving, “Torn—?”

“It’s not causing his illness, if that’s what you’re thinking, Killer _-ya._ ” Law leans back against the counter behind him, half-crosses his arms. “Infection spread at a rapid rate from his torture. I’ve managed to hinder it, but I’m confined to more traditional methods. My Devil Fruit is useless near him.”

For the first time, Killer seems to notice the empty mug before him, and wraps his hands thoughtlessly around it. In the following silence, Law hears him breathe deep—watches the rise of his shoulders as he takes in air.

“Trafalgar. Do you know why he wanted to see me?”

Slowly, Killer lifts one hand to his mask, holding it there for a beat before removing it carefully. His face falls into light, deathly pale, wretched—a deep, brutal scar runs across from his left ear to his jaw, twisting his features. Blue eyes watch Law cautiously, gauging his reaction, looking for some semblance of shock.

“He wants you to leave,” Law says, steadily. That Killer would think he would be worried about his appearance, of all things, is almost enough to rouse his blackest humor.

“Without him.” Killer grips the mug tighter. “He wants me to leave him here, to die. Fuck— _fuck_.”

“He’s not dead yet.”

“You saw him.”

For a moment, Law does not reply, the only sound in the galley the steady hum of the _Polar Tang._ Killer looks down to his hands, wild, matted hair falling over his face.

“I’ve seen others survive worse,” Law says softly. Thinks of Luffy, lying in the same bed Kid sleeps on now; his chest open and bleeding, rubber rib cage _slagged_. And himself—he does not, does _not_ touch his hand to the grisly mess of scar tissue ringing his arm under his sleeve—still alive, the boy that survived once among the living still. “Humans find the strangest ways to survive.”

Killer does not look up. “And if he doesn’t? If he doesn’t make it—” He lets out shaky laugh, too loud in the empty room, too loud for the moment. “All I ever wanted was to follow him. See the edges of the earth, find the damn treasure. It’s all a pipe dream without him. I’m—I’m nothing without him. The crew . . .”

He looks up, sudden, blinking at Law stupidly, as if waking from a dream.

“And you are—” Killer breaks off again, swallowing loudly, eyes wide.

Without another word, he takes up his mask once more, clicking it back into place—leaves Law staring at the Massacre Soldier he knows from the papers, from the sheaf of bounties clogging his filing cabinet.

Killer turns and leaves without another word, the empty mug on the counter the only sign he’d been there at all. Law stares at the doorway for a long time, his mind a hazy fog, thinking of a crew without its captain, and intentions cut abruptly short. Of the spaces left behind by somebody gone.

Of Killer, kneeling by Kid’s bedside; and Eustass Kid himself, half-alive and snarling, _Tell him to leave, and not come back._

Law finishes his coffee, and leaves the empty galley, descending back into the deeper dark of the submarine.

*

The following night, Eustass Kid watches him change the IV bag.

“You’re a real doctor, then, huh?” he asks. His voice is rusted, strained from disuse. Law’s amazed he can even talk at all.

He glances at Kid for a brief second before returning to the task at hand. “I went to school. In the North Blue.”

“Fancy.”

Kid falls quiet after that, allowing Law to focus on what he knows, what he understands—recording notes, times, checking fluids, pressure—

“Know about dreams, Trafalgar?”

Law stiffens, eyes on the clipboard in front of him—but the thread of his thought escapes him, the words blurring before his eyes, and he can _feel_ Kid’s gaze on him, boring into him, waiting.

“No,” he answers, wary, unsure.

“In the South Blue—” Kid breaks off with a grunt, and Law looks up, watching him shift, trying to get more comfortable against the stiff pillow. “—They, ahh. They have these women. They read your lifelines and look in foggy globes and have cards and shit.”

“Lifelines?”

“Yeah.” Kid raises his right hand, metal index finger of his left tracing the thin palm line from the base of his thumb to his wrist. Law frowns, and Kid drops both arms with a thump, exhausted from the small effort. He looks up at the ceiling. “It’s bullshit. But.”

Kid sighs.

“You’ve been having dreams?” Law asks. His heart starts thudding uncomfortably in his chest, but he takes a breath, forcing himself to focus. “You can remember them? From when you were—?”

“Yeah.” Kid— _smiles_ , then, a thing so unexpected Law almost doesn’t believe it. Kid grins up at the roof, closing his eyes, and adds, “It’s the same every time. I’m swimming. Tropical oceans full of coral . . . there’s fish and sharks and stingrays, everything. Like Fishman Island. The water’s—” he breathes deep, content, “—warm.”

All at once the fear crashes down on Law, and he sways, clipboard nearly slipping from his grasp. Kid’s eyes stay closed, but Law—sinks, down to the floor, heart racing, beating, beating, beating. The candlelight is too bright, machinery beeping too loud—IV steadily dripping, unrelenting. All of it; too much of all of it.

He manages, after a minute, “You’ve been dreaming of the ocean?”

Kid’s chest rises and falls, even, steady. He sounds far away when he speaks. “In the South, they say a Devil Fruit user returns to the sea. That before you die, the ocean calls to you.” He sighs, long and low. “I guess . . .”

Kid does not finish. Law lets the silence stretch and stretch, until Kid breathes louder, eyes fluttering in a deep sleep. He stays on the floor, unable to move, until the first rays of dawn break across the horizon.

But he cannot shake the dark, endless abyss; the chilling cold, the pressure, closing in and in until he can’t scream, or breathe, or do anything save sink.

And he tries, desperately, to imagine warmer tides: beds of colourful coral and schools of tropical fish, sharks and stingrays, and waves gently rolling to the shore. Tries desperately to find some way out of his own brain, out of the mire.

Desperately wishes for release.

*

Kid wakes again the next night—slower, this time, as though wading out from a dream. He lies still as the dead, staring at the ceiling, chest rising with slow, deep breaths.

Minutes crawl by as he gathers himself enough to talk. Law works on the other side of the room, trawling through yet another text on the effects of seastone, and doesn’t press him.

“Trafalgar,” Kid says at last, eyes meeting Law’s as he comes to stand at the cot. “I feel like I’m drowning.”

A lifetime passes between them. Law tries to think of something to say— _anything_ —but the words are caught in the back of his throat, twisted like a knot of fishing net spat up by the tide. He falls into habit, checking each drip, every bandage; pauses, hesitant, as he comes to the metal arm.

Law sees the muscles in Kid’s jaw tense. Starts, not knowing what he means to say, “Eustass- _ya_ —”

“Did Killer leave?” The question is tight, forced out between Kid’s teeth. His right hand is fisted in the bedclothes. “Is he gone?”

“No,” Law says evenly. “Your ship—”

“Don’t care—get him—” Kid sucks in a short, violent gasp, “— _get him out_.”

Everything is very still. Moonlight pours through the window behind Law, basking Kid in an eerie glow. The tide is steady beneath the night.

“You’re not dead,” Law says eventually, mouth inexplicably dry. “I can—”

He pauses. The words aren’t coming out, and Kid is staring at him, and it’s wrong. It all feels _very_ wrong.

Law digs his nails into his palms, forcing out a breath. _Speak_. “I can remove your arm, Eustass- _ya_. I can help you. You can leave here with Killer, go back to the South, or on—”

“ _No_ ,” Kid whispers. “No, I can’t.”

Annoyance flares in Law— _stubborn fool_ —ready to bite, but:

“Don’t you understand, Trafalgar?” Kid breathes slowly, turning his head away from Law, talking into the strange light of the window. “I can’t go back to them. Not after this.”

Law gets it, then.

All at once he understands, and he straightens, staring at Kid. Says, slowly and purposefully, “I see.”

And he knows what it is that he must do.

*

Hours later, sitting by Kid’s bedside, he remembers Cora telling him of his and Doflamingo’s mother.

It had been late at night, on the outskirts of yet another unnamed city, cooking on a feeble fire by the ocean. He doesn’t remember how they’d found their way to the subject, doesn’t remember any of the surrounding detail at all, the grain of his memory scattered like sand across time and leagues of sea.

He remembers the story, though, jagged around the edges.

Cora had told him that their mother had been sick. That the illness, unlike Law’s own, was treatable with medical care. But the struggle of her life to that point had eaten her away, until there was nothing but a husk of a woman left—and she could not go on living in the shadow of her past self.

In the end, their father had agreed to let her go.

Anger had boiled in Law’s chest. Only thirteen and his whole family gone—he’d been struck by the absolute injustice of it all, her giving up on life when no one he’d known had _ever_ had that choice. His bitter words had fallen like rocks between him and Cora: _She was selfish. And your father was wrong_.

Cora hadn’t looked at him, but Law remembers having wanted to shrink from his gaze, knowing—even with Cora’s face hidden in the shadows of his hood, even with his own righteous anger still in the way—that Cora had been disappointed. _That’s what Doflamingo thought, too_.

And: _He never did understand about letting people make their own choices._

Law hadn’t understood, that night on the nameless beach. Hadn't cared to understand, savage jealousy stirring in the pit of his stomach, unable to comprehend how such a decision could even be considered.

He gets it, now.

He waits till dawn. Leans _Kikoku_ deliberately beside the bed and stays in the chair he’s dragged next to the cot, keeping very still. Kid’s sleep is disruptive. He tosses and turns, sheets stuck to his bare chest and legs, every painful breath dragged laboriously through his teeth.

The hours crawl by. Gentle waves rock the ship, the water silver with the moon outside.

Law drifts.

The dreams that rise up to greet him are dark, the freezing abyss swelling around him, drawing him further into the depths. He swims down. He can’t _see_. Something slides over his outstretched hand, smooth, and it curls around his wrist. Tugs him deeper, and he wants to go. He wants to lose himself in the fear. He _wants_ —

Law wakes.

Eustass Kid takes a breath. Two.

Then none.

And he smiles.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big, huge thank you to my friend and editor trell, for completely transforming this chapter into something amazing - they helped so much, i can't even describe. even writing the lovely law and cora memory scene at the end. their author page can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/qunlat/pseuds/trell), with plenty of amazing lawlu work, i cannot recommend them enough.
> 
> anyway i hope you guys enjoyed it, (next chapter is happier, and luffy returns). also im sorry once again about the delayed update


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